


A little much

by nakanowardcat



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cam Girl AU, Depression, Loneliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakanowardcat/pseuds/nakanowardcat
Summary: Victor knows he shouldn't be drawn to someone like Yuuri, someone who doesn't get attached to his customers and who is paid by the minute for his time.But when Chris sends Victor a video of Yuuri sweetly admitting his biggest crush is Victor, he is left to handle a lot of feelings he'd thought were over; about his childhood, his loneliness and his very reason for skating.And all he knows is that he needs Yuuri more and more to help sort out the mess his life has become.





	1. Chapter 1

Victor had been asleep when his phone went off loudly on the pillow next to him. Blasted awake by the sudden noise, Makkachin yelped and scrambled away onto Victor's stomach. Victor felt the dog's weight on his chest and groaned. It must have been three a.m. and he already knew it was Chris before checking. A faint memory of Chris promising not to drunk dial unless it was an emergency surfaced in Victor's mind. The phone kept on ringing insufferably loudly.

Finally he caved and reluctantly picked up, while soothing Makkachin's snout with his other hand.

“VICTOR!!!” Victor jerked the receiver away. Chris kept yelling his name down the line. “VICTOOOORRR!!!”

Keeping it a foot away from his head, Victor replied:

“What? Speak quieter.”

“Ok, ok, but Victor you _have_ to see this video I'm sending you!”

He sounded excited, but Victor couldn't muster the curiosity. It was the middle of his sleep. “I thought you said you'd only call this late in emergencies? As in a bad date.”

“Well my date was fine but this _is_ an emergency, for you! You have to see this video right now.”

His phone buzzed with a new message. Victor gave in. “Fine I'll see it.”

He opened the text and looked at the link. Re-read it. Then closed the text.

“Chris. That's porn.” He explained calmly, not needing to add a further reason why he wasn't going to open it.

“Yes?” Chris sounded impatient.

“I'm not going to open porn. Not even if you're... Actually especially if you're the one sending it.”

“I'm going to try not to be wounded by that. But open it, I swear it's not what you think.”

“Is it porn?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's exactly what I think! And why are you sending me porn links at three in the morning? I have training tomorrow.”

“Just play the damn video!”

Chris hung up. Victor wondered how long he'd be able to sleep before Chris worked out he hadn't seen the video. His guess was not very long. Resigned, he pulled up the text and tried to avoid thinking about his search history as he opened the link. At the very least he hoped the site wouldn't give his phone a virus.

It redirected him to a popular gay porn website and Victor tried hard to shake the image of what Chris was up to from his head as the video loaded. He was just that way, Victor had got used to it a long time ago. He hit play.

It started in a room. A young man sat on a satin covered bed. He seemed to be some kind of cam boy. Victor couldn't see anyone else around him, the shot framed only on the man and an elaborate headboard. Victor flipped his phone round to full screen to see better. Normally porn stars did nothing for him. He wasn't interested in girls, and the men were much too bulky and he felt they had unattractive personalities. Chris had laughed at him for thinking about that instead of the physical act, but Victor found it was true. Porn seemed lonely and completely incompatible with intimacy, which to him was the most arousing part of any relationship but especially sex. Victor had rarely looked at porn as a teen, rarely got off, and pretty soon stopped entirely.

But this man was handsome. In fact, as Victor squinted into the bright screen, he looked very handsome. Lean but muscled, slicked back hair with some dark strands still hanging over his milky skin, and slightly fuller lips. He was Asian, his eyes warm and defined, seductive. He was wearing a black t shirt with a deep V neck that touched over his collarbones. The young man looked straight into the camera like Victor himself was being addressed.

“I've got a question from one of you on my last video.” He spoke softly. Victor guessed he was Japanese from his pronunciation, though his accent was slight. It was surprisingly cute compared to his tempting appearance, sweet and gentle. Despite himself Victor was getting drawn in.

“You asked me who I would most like to sleep with in the world.” He chuckled a little. Victor's breath caught. It sounded _magical_. And his eyes caught up in his laugh sparkled with the same magic, between Victor and him, the intimacy of his laughter.

“Well, I can speak honestly here.” He smiled knowingly at Victor, who realised he was holding the phone much closer to his face. Closer he was hot. Really really hot. It was a confidence between them, a secret whispered just to Victor. He leant in.

“The person in the world I think is the sexiest...” He pronounced the “x” with a slight hitch and Victor felt flustered and overheated. He was punishingly cute. He pushed his bottom lip out and bit it; Victor imagined his teeth doing the same to them.

“I think...” He smiled again, enjoying keeping Victor dangling. He was suddenly absolutely desperate to know what this boy was going to say, and the boy knew. He was playing with him. His eyes teased, he kept looking straight into the camera, straight at Victor, and this was doing for him what no porn had done before. They were looking right into each other's eyes, but Victor wasn't in charge. He was hanging on those lips. The man was gorgeous and powerful and Victor wanted him to keep talking, wanted him full stop. 

He smiled to Victor, but it wasn't forced: it was natural, sexy beyond words.

“... is Victor Nikiforov.” Pure, beautiful, mind-meltingly attractive his smile, and before Victor realised it his breath faultered and his eyes were wide open and his heart had started beating for the first time, or it felt like it. He didn't even hear what the beautiful young man had said, he couldn't focus on that, just the movement of his lips, and the crinkles at his eyes, that _smile_ , were mesmerizing.

His phone rang. Victor snatched his eyes away from the paused screen to bookmark the page, then hit answer.

“So?” Chris said expectantly. “How do you feel?”

Sometime between the last call and watching the video, Victor's throat had gone dry. He gulped.

“Ha! That good?” Chris was immediately triumphant.

Victor nodded, then realised Chris couldn't see.

“He's... he's _beautiful_. Who is he?”

“He just calls himself Yuuri and I think that's his actual name. He does private shows and then these public Q&As for his fans. Me and my date were going to have a look at some videos together from another guy when I saw the title of this one. We took a little pause to show you that.”

Victor hadn't actually read the title. Before playing he'd assumed it would be filth, and afterwards he'd been too focused on watching Yuuri. Yuuri. Even his name was perfect, Victor liked how it fit in his mouth, starting at the back and rolling off the tongue.

He didn't reply, so Chris began talking again.

“I mean you get flattery from fans all the time but I thought this one was special.”

“He _is_ special.” Victor agreed dreamily before the rest of Chris' sentence registered in his head. “Wait, flattery?”

“Yeah, as in a lot of your fans think you're the most handsome man in the world.”

Victor pulled a confused face and looked at Makkachin, who almost seemed to shrug, then rolled back onto his side of the bed, yawning.

“I suppose so. What does that have to do with the video exactly?”

Chris hesitated. “Didn't you watch it to the end?”

“Four seconds before the end, but basically.”

“So you heard what he said right? About the 'sexiest man in the world'?” Chris' voice reached for the most dramatic way of saying it. Victor realised he hadn't been paying attention then. Yuuri had smiled. His world had shifted.

“Actually, I might have been a little distracted.” Victor confessed, already dreading how Chris would interpret that...

“I knew you'd get hard! You're hard right now!”

Victor grudgingly acknowledged it with a grunt. Chris kept snickering down the phone.

“Incredible. Unbelievable. I show you hardcore nudity and you feel _nothing_ and then this boy doesn't even take his t-shirt off and you're practically cracking one out in your sleep. You're such a creep!”

Victor grinned, knowing Chris' sense of humour all too well. Chris didn't go in for romance, he wanted to play the field for now. Plus Chris was pretty much right, except about being a pervert. He just liked the way it felt as though Yuuri had been looking directly at him, seeing his reactions and smiling at him. Victor felt that made him the opposite of a creep and he was about to say as much when Chris interrupted.

“Well if you'd been paying attention, you'd have heard Yuuri say he thought a certain someone, a certain internationally renown figure skater, a certain Russian figure skater, with silver hair, a certain _someone_ like that - I think you know who I mean - was the _sexiest person in the whooole world_.”

Victor's mind went blank.

“He said that?”

“In his video." Chris sounded like the cat who got the cream. "Which you should've watched more carefully, instead of acting like a teenager with his first boner.”

“I...” Victor's throat was suddenly very dry again. He visualised Yuuri saying his name and struggled to think of anything else.

“I need to go play with my date now, Victor. He's getting jealous. You go rewatch that video a hundred times and have to send Makkachin off the bed. Good night!”

Victor muttered “good night” and Chris hung up. He couldn't believe it. He brought up the video again and stared at Yuuri's face, gorgeous even with the play symbol transparent on top of it. The title underneath was “Yuuri answers! Who's my crush??”. Victor's blush started again. The way he wrote was adorable. Yuuri was going to say his name, Chris had promised. He went back twenty seconds. Yuuri locked eyes with him. He pressed play.

Yuuri's voice started, calling out again. He wanted to sink into the screen to meet it. His fingers clung onto his phone like a lifeline.

“The person in the world I think is sexiest... I think... is Victor Nikiforov.”

Victor gasped. Paused. Rewind.

“is Victor Nikiforov.” Yuuri smiled to reassure him it was true. He'd said Victor's name. His crush's name.

His name on that man's lips, with that smile. It dripped out like honey, like sex, Victor's eyes were swallowing the screen whole.

“I think is the sexiest...” His eyes glinted right as he said it, like it was a naughty confession, tripping on the “x” sound he couldn't quite do in one go. He was so perfect, so handsome and so damn hot. Victor could already feel himself half-hard, had been rubbing himself on his duvet from before he even knew Yuuri said his name.

“is Victor Nikiforov.”

It was the way he _smiled_ when he said _Victor's_ name. There couldn't be anything in the entire world more seductive than that. Victor replayed it again. His blanket felt a bit too hot and his cushion sticky. He didn't realise he was sweating so much. Yuuri said it again. The t-shirt fabric clung to Yuuri's collarbones just right. Victor groaned and resisted reaching down to get himself completely hard. Yuuri called out Victor's name over and over and smiled... Victor worried he might have to chase Makkachin out of the room like Chris had said. He needed more.

Quickly opening private browsing, Victor typed in “Yuuri, cam” and hesitated before adding “porn”. The search wheel turned, bringing up sites. The first few were videos of girls who were called 'Yuri', he went passed them, and then the site Chris had linked. There were more Q&A type videos posted by his channel, all a variant on “Yuuri answers!” Underneath the channel name there was a web link. Victor clicked it immediately, fear of internet malware long gone.

It sent him to a page that was a little slower to load. Two high resolution images of Yuuri served as top and bottom banners. He looked mouthwatering, one in black lycra, mesh drawn on the sides to show his shape as he lay on the bed, seductively glowering at Victor, biting his bottom lip like he had in the video. Maybe that was a habit. Victor felt much too shy to look at where his hands were going, but seeing Yuuri like that, with his hands stroking down his waist was sending blood in the same direction. The other made his heart skip. Yuuri hung upside down on a pole, the cool metal between his legs, his open shirt exposing most of his chest and stomach, barely covering his pecs. His legs were completely bare, clinging all his weight on the pole. He smiled broadly and that grin made his flushed face the brightest thing Victor had ever seen. He outshone Victor's gold medals by far. It wasn't even comparable. Victor tore his eyes away to look at the rest of the loaded page.

A video screen indicated Yuuri was offline. Above was an option for a private webcam, photos and pre-recorded video. Underneath was a wall of comments.

 

> Good time!! Yuuri is a great performer!
> 
> **Torguy32**

 

> Yuuri can dance for me anytime *drool* best cam boy
> 
> **fancam3ever**

 

Victor stopped reading. He wasn't alone. Other people watched him. Other people watched these videos, even the one where Yuuri was talking only to Victor. He could tell Yuuri was talking only to him, just from the way he said Victor's name, from his smile. But other people couldn't know that. Yuuri played for other people as well. His stomach curled with an awful jealousy. It wasn't intimate. Yuuri's eyes promised it was between the two of them, but there were all the comments, all the proof it wasn't. Victor wanted someone to touch who was just his. He shook his head and slowly moved the phone further back. This wasn't where he was going to find someone who was only his.

He closed the browser and dropped the phone back on the pillow. He wondered if it was worth finishing himself off, decided to ignore it and try to get back to sleep. Makkachin vaguely licked his upper arm and settled down to resume his rest. Victor put an arm around him. He felt so tired.

 

\- - -

 

His session at the rink was a mess. The worst in years. Yakov ended up sending him off the ice red-faced before Victor could mess up another easy jump and seriously injure himself. The curious stares from the other skaters around him, waiting for the rink to clear, set him off. They never had before. Yakov had a policy of allowing anyone in on each other's practices except in the week leading up to competition, and while usually Victor didn't mind, enjoyed having a small audience, right now he felt sick. They weren't an audience ready to see him bare his soul, not like the crowds at competition. They didn't want Victor's art, they wanted his head. They wanted him to fail and fall, for his crown to crumble at last. The people he'd thought were company were wolves in sheep's clothing.

Every time he climbed onto the top of the podium was another year they wouldn't.

He already known it, but horrible tide of loneliness still rose uneasily in his stomach. He threw his ice skates in a bag and stormed out of the changing rooms, drawing more hostile eyes on the way. It was like Junior's training all over again. Victor didn't want to remember, it stung too much, but he couldn't help the sore marks summer training had left in his heart aged fifteen.

Yakov's program was by invitation only and Victor's had come in the post months before. He'd be in the group above, with the older kids. It was tremendously exciting. His parents accompanied him to the train station near their summer home and his mother kissed him goodbye, while his father had already gone to start the car. Victor waved until the last wisp of his mother's blue summer dress had gone out of sight. The train was still on the empty platform. He settled in for a long journey, overjoyed at the prospect of finally getting back on the ice after only a couple of weeks away, and of being surrounded by people who understood the drive, who knew what it felt like to be young and completely in love with what you did. People who knew it tended to make you alone at school when you had to fit six hours of practice a day around classes, but how worth it it was. He saw his parents' car driving away from the station and into the distance down the road. He raised his hand to wave again, but when the sunlight finally stopped shining on the back window, he could tell neither his mother nor father had turned round to wave goodbye again. He kissed his fingertips and waved anyway, in case they wondered whether he would miss them, to reassure their retreating backs that yes, he would and he sent his love, before catching the eye of a grumpy man a few seats down and stopping. He was looking forwards to making new friends that summer. Somehow he always felt tired.

Training was happiness. It was the slick feel of his skate leaving the ice and the tight twists he fit in before it slammed back onto it again. It was a complete focus on the skills he'd trained his body to have. He'd grown his hair out to feel the flow of his movements better, to make sure he whipped round fast enough to make it slap on his sides, to let it spread out and encircle his arms when he span. He laughed with the other boys and girls at the club. They knew what it meant. After training they sat together and had ice cream, and went walking down to the banks of the river. At night they divided into bunk beds and told stories. Victor was youngest and always in the middle of it all, basking in the company. Skating felt more like home than home. They accepted him into the group without question. He was young but he was their equal, at least in the rink.

On Sunday they'd gone to the Peter and Paul Fortress at the mouth of the river and dared Victor to swim. It was a hot day and Victor went in to waist height before turning around to get them to join. They all stood on the bank, giggling. Victor smiled and splashed a wave towards them as invitation. They picked up his new sandals where he'd left them. Victor was glad to see the other skaters pass them around. Victor loved them, had refused to wear anything else asides from those and ice skates all summer. They were silver and leather and more than his pocket money could really stretch to but what he'd wanted all the same. When he had enough money he bought them. It didn't matter that they were for girls if they fit him. The skaters passed them around. Victor waded back towards the river bank to tell them about how he'd saved so much and that they were really for girls, when something splashed in front of his face.

It glittered silver in the water.

Victor scooped it up quickly before the current pulled it away and ran towards shore, feeling slightly panicked now but he couldn't tell why. The river was strong. He was slow.

His second shoe landed metres away and Victor dived forwards to catch it in the air. It hit the water at the same time Victor did. He spluttered out hair and a mouthful of water, his long strands tangled round his nose hung sopping wet to the sides of his face but it didn't matter, he scanned the water for his shoe, which trailed away. He splashed over quickly and caught it, then holding the pair and with his t-shirt sopping wet made his way back to shore.

It hadn't been a very funny joke. Victor laughed along with them though. What else could he do? Maybe being older gave them a different sense of humour. Victor couldn't be too sensitive if he really wanted them to like him. He belonged with the group. They were the same as him.

His footsteps gave a wet squelch all the way home, but they let him drink beer with them in the park afterwards. Victor ignored the fact he was getting cold in his wet clothes and tried to laugh anyway.

And then in the middle of camp Yakov had kept him behind after training, to tell him off for jumping quads when everyone else had been practicing triples.

And Victor had burst out of the rink with a huge grin after promising, cross his heart and hope to die, that he wouldn't, and ran to catch up with his friends to tell them all about how Yakov had yelled till his bald patch shone. He looked so funny.

And the wind over the river was so loud it covered the sound of his footsteps, skipping up behind to surprise them, the racket his sandals usually made swept away.

He reached behind them as they came off the bridge. They were laughing. They still hadn't spotted him.

And then the girl in front pulled a huge goofy smile and pranced with her hands up. And they laughed, so Victor smiled, ready to pull his prank and show up right next to them.

And then a boy Victor had paired up with asked who “that show off” was trying to impress. And Victor smiled, confused, ready to burst in front any second and see his friends laugh.

And then they said they wished “he” would stop hogging the ice. And Victor didn't know who they were talking about, but he didn't feel like jumping out so much any more. Actually he was starting to feel a little small.

And then they joked about “his” shorts and “his” stupid girly sandals. And Victor didn't want to look down at his feet. He was worried tears might fall out if he did. Onto the pretty sandals he'd bought with his own money.

And then they asked why he wouldn't leave them alone so they could hang out with people they liked. With their friends. And Victor stopped and watched them walk away, as a group. But not him.

Turning his face up to the sky didn't do a thing to stop him crying.

He had to let them be with their friends. He had to let them be. He was not a part of that. He didn't even realised he'd been an imposition. If he had of course he would never... he'd just wanted to be with the group...

His stupid pointless sandals he'd been so proud of dragged him back to the rink. Yakov had been locking the door. Victor stared straight into his stern face. At least Yakov was honest. He'd always told Victor the truth, what he needed to do to improve. He would never be equal with that group in their eyes. He wouldn't ever belong. Without a word Yakov gave him exactly what he needed: he opened the door to the rink and they walked back inside in silence.

His speed was reckless, his spins frankly dangerous, his jumps vaulted up metres, sprung powerfully and landed low and smooth on the ice before he jumped off again. Victor wanted to wear himself out. He didn't want to cry or feel betrayed. He was hurt but they were allowed not to be his friends if they didn't want to be. He was just hurt and tired, so very tired, of feeling lonely. Even at home, with his mother's cold kisses and his father's back to him but Victor wasn't like that. He couldn't live. He was the flames above the ice and he would never reject those feelings. He was weightless, a bird prey to every breeze and soaring above them all. In ice skating he was an untouchable contradiction and the rest of the world would have to watch his feelings and marvel. He would make them _see_ it. He would make them feel how he felt and he would do it till the entire world knew. If he had to be alone, he would make them watch how it felt. Every burst of energy would be more blinding than the next.

He wasn't sure how long he raged and vented on the ice. All he knew was Yakov was there, silent, and the skylight above the ice darkened. He swung over to the edge of the rink and held onto it. He hadn't realised he was panting, or that his legs were weak. His ankles slowly swelled and tightened in his skate straps. But he was free. The tap of Yakov's footsteps echoed round the hall and stopped in front of him.

Victor knew now. He understood. He would give everything to the ice and he would win. The drum beat in his chest told him that was how it had to be. Yakov held the top of his arm and pulled him off the rink in silence, setting him on a bench. Victor's triumph collapsed as soon as the steady grip let go. He fell down on it.

“Vitya, whatever happens, we are going to make you a winner.” Yakov's voice was unusually gentle. He knelt down at the young skater's side, the most promising he'd ever seen, and lifted the boy's foot off the ground to undo the tricky laces. “But there will always be people who resent you for being better than they could be. Don't close your heart. Surprise them over and over on the ice and they will be too stunned and dazzled to ever try to pull you down.” Victor hissed between his teeth at the pain when the loosened skate was pulled around his swollen ankle, aching and stinging, before coming off. Yakov set it aside and started on the other. Victor felt the tears come up again. Yakov's head was bowed, almost like it was in respect to him. His hair was already grey at the crown. Even his own father had never called him “Vitya”, or perhaps it was so long ago that Victor couldn't remember. He felt an enormous rush of affection for Yakov, who at least tried in his own way to understand.

The shaking started in his hands, but it spread down his arms, his legs, his toes. The skate on his small, child-like foot trembled in Yakov's hands. He was only a fifteen year old boy and he'd just become aware of how terribly unfair life would be. He was only fifteen and he knew not a soul in the world would help him.

Of course he cried on the way home, curled in the back seat of Yakov's car. Yakov handed him his treasured sandals when they reached the front door of the dorms. Victor clutched them tight and nodded to him. Him and Yakov, they were going to do the impossible together till no one could ever hurt him. He was going to make the whole world see. He was not going to be defeated.

A steel resolve grew in him. He had a plan.

The next day his feet would not fit inside his skates and he was dispensed of practice and told to rest for tomorrow with ice packs on his ankles to calm the swelling. Victor strapped two packets of frozen peas round either side of his ankles with an elastic band and went out anyway. He limped but he was determined.

He asked for the phone book at a newsagent's, who looked at his long hair, brightly striped shirt, his battered denim shorts and the packets of frozen peas strapped to his ankles and handed it over with a glare. Victor didn't care. Let him think what he wanted. He found the address he was looking for and gave it back with a grin. He stamped his obnoxious silver shoes as loudly as he could on the way out. He liked them, that's all that counted.

At the animal pound there was a bored lady stirring coffee at the desk, who didn't bat an eye when Victor walked in and said he wanted to see the dogs. She pointed him towards a series of cages down a long corridor. She didn't even bother getting up. Victor strode away into the cages, looking at every dog he saw.

He wanted every one of them, every one of these discarded, unloved, hungry dogs who barked and sniffed as he limped past. Some growled defensively, ready to fight him off with their teeth bared and hackles raised and Victor knew how they felt. Some didn't even lift their heads off their paws, as though they knew it was not the day they would be chosen. As if they'd given up on ever being chosen. Victor knew how they felt. He wondered how long they'd been there, how long they had left before the pound decided they would never leave and disposed of them. The world wasn't fair. He hoped they enjoyed their time when they'd been free.

He got to the end. He peered into the last cage and couldn't see any dog, only the scattered straw all the other cages had. He looked closer to the back to see if it was hiding, or under the blanket that was in the cage.... A lump of straw biffed at his heels and something bumped and rattled the cage. 

He squatted down, winced at the pain in his ankles and dropped on his butt, looking curiously for the source of the noise.  
  
The straw rustled. He paused and waited till there was another small yap, and Victor saw the flash of pink of a tiny open mouth. He made out two small, shiny black eyes just above. Victor hesitated then opened the cage door. A little pile of straw sniffed round the side, but it was away from the cover of the rest of the straw now, and Victor swooped to pick it up.

The straw was caught in the pup's thickly curled brown fluff. He didn't seem to mind being picked up that much, only squirmed his paws before yawning. Victor dropped him on his lap. The pup sniffed sleepily. The straw poked Victor's legs. He began picking it out, occasionally having to pull at it quite sharply to get it out of the fluffy snare. The pup seemed to enjoy the feeling of being groomed. It rolled around happily. Victor got the straw round its ears and once unpinned they flopped around the dog's face. He seemed delighted. Victor worked out it must be a poodle. He cleared the rest of the soft brown fur, enjoying pressing his fingertip against the little beads on the dog's foot, who then looked at his own foot cautiously. He was a very small pup, the straw had bulked him out a lot. He looked underfed. The pup yawned again in Victor's lap, and free of straw his nestling movement felt warm and cosy. Their eyes met. The dog's pink tongue fell out of his mouth and he yipped. Victor swelled with love for the tiny thing.

This was his dog.

He picked him up again carefully and cradled him on his chest. The puppy had decided to go to sleep, ignoring the barks of the other dogs as Victor walked back out.

The lady at the desk seemed completely disinterested in everything to do with what was happening around her. Victor dropped the entire content of his pockets, two twenty ruble coins and a popsicle stick, in front of her to pay, declared he was taking the dog, and walked out. She didn't stop him. The peas had entirely unfrozen by the time he got back to his room.

Yakov was less than pleased; both that Victor had been walking all morning, and secondly that he had to organise and pay for all the pup's vaccinations and worming, which admittedly Victor had forgotten about as he clutched the small ball of slow breathing fluff to his chest on the way home. What he'd thought about instead was that he was going to love this puppy so much that it would have to love him back. Then he wouldn't be alone.

He called him Makkachin and once he'd been fed and gained weight, he was an unstoppable machine of walks and biffing, just as active as Victor and occasionally stopping long enough for cuddles. In many ways, the worst thing that had happened to him that summer ended up becoming the best thing that had happened in his life.

Yakov formally asked his parents to allow Victor to train full time at the St. Petersburg ring in order to compete with the Russian team at Nationals. They accepted without much concern. Makka came with him of course. After that he saw his parents once a year at Christmas, for his birthday. It was an uncomfortable few days. Finally his father retired and he and Victor's mother moved abroad while Victor's competitive career took off in earnest. Then they lost touch. Though Victor learnt French to go and visit them, years passed and the invitation never arrived. By then he was too busy anyway. His body had changed and he'd finally grown strong enough for quads. He won the Olympics that year. His mother phoned him. Victor had been at the after-party and missed the call. She never called back. She never would again. The following year his presence was requested at her funeral. She'd died the week before. No one had told him. He flew over to watch her be lowered into the ground and didn't even stay overnight. His father shook his hand at the entrance of the church, looking pale and stiff-lipped. If he recognised his son, the Olympic champion, he gave no sign of it. Victor was at practice the next day. 

Even with his skating schedule, Victor didn't understand how one could be a disinterested parent. He spent every second he wasn't training with Makkachin and it still wasn't enough. During competitions he found a dog-sitter he trusted for his precious puppy (though Makkachin had by now grown into quite a large poodle, he would always remember the puppy who'd become his first friend), and face timed Makkachin on his new phone whenever he got back to the hotel, provided it wasn't too late. It was always soothing to see Makkachin's snout push at the camera, trying to snuffle Victor's face in front of him. His dog had so much love. Victor had so much love for him, too.

His French turned out useful in other ways, he made new friends with skaters from around the world, and in particular found he got along well with a Swiss skater called Chris Giacometti, who joined senior division two years after him. They met up a few times, wondered if they would sleep together and decided to become close friends instead. At the home rink in St. Petersburg, the drama of Georgi's endless heartbreaks and Milla's teasing kindness became a friendly norm. Victor never acknowledged that there was a lingering jealousy in some eyes. He would do as Yakov had advised, which had always worked; he would dazzle and turn heads in awe until the world was putty in his hands and he could do as he pleased with them. He would be untouchable at the top.

But in all honesty it was lonely being a god. It didn't feel that powerful to be at the top, if all you could do was look down and wonder how it felt to be with others.

Victor dropped his bag on the sofa of his apartment and picked up his laptop, bringing up Yuuri's website. The video screen said Yuuri had been online five hours ago. He'd missed him.

All this remembrance of the past, it was Yuuri who had started it. It was Yuuri who'd poked holes in his facade and it was Yuuri who made him feel the loneliness he'd kept in check for years. And it was Yuuri who was so breathtakingly beautiful he couldn't bear that loneliness any more. He found a link to an e-mail address with a server he'd never heard of and composed his message quickly, without trying to overthink himself out of it.

 

> Dear Yuuri,
> 
> Have you ever considered the idea of two people being drawn together? I didn't until quite recently.
> 
> I'd like to see you alone, would that be possible?
> 
> Yours, it seems,
> 
> Victor Nikiforov

 

The reply came later, as Victor got out of the shower. His phone buzzed on the cabinet in the hall and Victor carefully nudged Makkachin away from the shower's sliding doors, not wanting to clean a very soggy dog, while rushing to pick it up.

 

> Dear “Victor” (you must have seen that answer video!!!),
> 
> It is a very romantic idea but I'm not sure it's for me I'm sorry to say.
> 
> If you would like a private show, my rates are up on the webpage alongside this e-mail address. Any time outside of regularly scheduled shows is suitable. Please contact me to let me know when you would like.
> 
> Yours sincerely,
> 
> Yuuri

 

His answer was polite and to the point, though Victor wondered what on earth he was doing here. What was the plan? Yuuri's answer to his first question guaranteed this would not end well for him. He could only get his heart torn apart by Yuuri, that much was clear. It had never stopped Victor in the past however, and it wouldn't stop him now. He felt the same determination as when he'd decided to get a dog and win gold, and damn himself to a life apart. He was going to have as much as Yuuri was willing to give, even if it wasn't enough to satisfy Victor. Because Yuuri was the one who started all these feelings without realising. If he had to pay for the time that at least made it clear where the lines were.

And he would make sure Yuuri knew he was talking to the real Victor Nikiforov, whoever he thought that was. He answered without bothering to check the rates. He would pay whatever Yuuri wanted for his time and he assumed it wasn't cheap. 

 

> Dear Yuuri,
> 
> Would a picture of my gold medals help convince you not to use quotation marks around my name?
> 
> I'm afraid I'm not sure when the regular slots are. Would now be ok?
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Victor Nikiforov (seriously.)

 

He realised he'd been standing naked in the doorway of the bathroom dripping the entire time he'd been writing. Makkachin whined to go into the shower and Victor closed the door on him. There was clean underwear in his drawer. By the time he'd fed Makkachin an early dinner his phone rung with Yuuri's reply.

 

> Dear Victor,
> 
> I've met many “Victor Nikiforov”s since that video, but you are definitely the bravest! So show me your medals, face and today's newspaper! Of course you don't have to, I don't mind calling you Victor even without that, you know how I feel about him ;)
> 
> I have a show starting in ten minutes. I'd be happy to see you afterwards, when I've cleaned up. Two hours from now?
> 
> Yuuri

 

Two hours gave Victor time to get ready. He smiled at Yuuri's demand to see a picture. He typed back a quick reply saying as much and apologizing for not having a newspaper in the house. Yuuri typed back with a laugh Victor would much rather have heard than seen written, and assured him he believed the excuse. He would see Yuuri in two hours, by himself. Yuuri would be all his for that call.

Victor found that thought some kind of comfort from the idea that Yuuri would be displaying himself in front of the other crowd before then. Still if he had two hours he might as well get that newspaper and then eat.

He picked up the only English language paper the shop closest to his flat had. On the way back he remembered Chris' four lessons in internet dating, back when Victor had thought of giving it a go. It hadn't gone very far; he didn't click with anyone and no one was willing to put up with his draining schedule that left little time for couple activities. But Chris had showed him his bible in taking sexy pictures. He picked up his phone, his gold medals and the newspaper and knelt on his bed. He took off his shirt and put the medals round his neck, making sure his Olympic gold was right at the front. He had a sudden flash of Chris based inspiration and held the cold metal in turn against his nipples till they was completely pert. It felt stupid, but Chris had said topless was the best way...

He smiled at his reflection in the front facing camera. Too silly. That girl was right about his smile, it was much too big for his face. He ignored the sting. He could still be plenty attractive, he knew that.

He put the newspaper up next to his lips, making sure the date was visible. His still damp hair swung down heavily over his left eye and tousled perfectly. He held the phone slightly above face-height and tilted it down so that his medals and the expanse of his chest were visible, and just the hint of his boxer shorts at the hip. He took the picture and checked it.

The lighting was uneven and his skin flushed from running to the buy the paper, but nothing a black and white filter couldn't solve. He switched it over and judged the picture as an artist. He could detach himself that way. His eyes looked through his lashes into the lens. His skin turned marble white except for the two dark nipples that stood out in contrast, and the darker shadow lines of his abs. His medals hung heavily round his neck. The placement of the newspaper drew all the attention back to his soft glossy lips. At least the picture would clearly convey to Yuuri that Victor wanted to fuck him, but sensually. With the lights on. And that, after all, was the point. He attached it to an email and sent it without any other message. Yuuri was about to get his dreams. Victor was going to settle on his.

He texted Chris about it and as expected got a phone call a minute later. He skipped the greetings.

“You're crazy.” Chris sounded excited despite that comment. He always got hyped when Victor did the unexpected, something Yakov rather hypocritically said made him a bad influence. “I signed you up on his website. Made you an account.”

“You did what?” Victor wondered what part of the message “I'm getting Yuuri to meet me alone” Chris had misunderstood. Chris chuckled. “Oh sweet, innocent young Victor. These are _paying_ websites. You need an account before you can watch anything. I set one up for you. You can add your card if you want, though I'd recommend using a pre-paid card like you do on trips. It's safer. Here, this is your login.”

Victor's phone told him he'd got a message. Victor had to admit he'd never have thought to set up an account. The method for paying had drifted vaguely through his head, and he'd assumed paypal or something would be involved. But Chris knew what he was doing apparently. Victor wouldn't ask why, that was a danger zone, so he opened the message. And laughed.

“Chris. Did you seriously set up an account called “icedaddy”? And you didn't even give me the password. What's Yuuri going to think?” Victor scanned the text again. It just said “icedaddy, go get him!”. Chris sounded very pleased with himself. “But you _are_ Yuuri's ice daddy!” Victor managed to mutter an embarrassed “shut up” before Chris continued: “And the password is the date we met.”

Victor smirked. “You say you're not romantic, but then you go and do things like that. You're a liar, Christophe Giacometti. And how could I ever forget the date you won bronze in your senior debut? Though come to think of it I don't remember the actual exact date...” Chris sighed and told him, becoming serious. “Are you sure you want to do this, Victor? You sounded a bit strange on the phone yesterday, less composed. You know you can't get attached to this boy, right?” Victor didn't want to tell him he was a little too late to say that. “Of course I know. I'm not a child. I can take care of my own feelings.”

Chris backed down, sounding satisfied. They said goodbye.

He still had an hour. He took Chris' tip and found the pre-paid card from his last journey. He knew it must still have a couple of hundred on it. He'd get a new one later. He logged in and filled in a payment section. Nine free minutes were added to his account as a sign-up bonus. The reality of what he was doing sunk in at those nine free minutes clocked in under his account name. He'd signed up for an adult website, to talk to a man he would never actually have, because he'd made Victor feel how lonely his life really was. When he put it like that it was slightly sad. He put on his pyjamas and reheated yesterday's lemon chicken, threw some beans and rice into pans. Clean white meat. Healthy carbs. A Yakov-approved meal.

He couldn't deny it had been exciting, the path Yakov set him out on. Achieving more than anyone else could ever dream of, shattering world records left and right on his way up, their rubble spreading out like glitter in front of him. It was hard work but each medal was an encouragement to something more extreme, something newer that only Victor could give the crowd. Until the crowd got so used to the hit they couldn't live without him there. When he finally clawed his way to the very top, he'd become indispensable. The very air that skaters breathed. No one could avoid him if they were aiming for a place on the podium and they'd all have to look up at him if they made it, look at him alone at the top. He'd played the part so perfectly he'd fooled himself every step of the way into believing he was doing this to show he needed no one, that how he felt was born and stayed on the ice, and died when he stepped off. That he shrugged out of feelings like he shrugged out of clothes, because he was bored, because they were old. Because he was tired. He'd forgotten he kept a pair of small, stained silver girl's shoes in a box at the back of his cupboard. He'd forgotten the source of the love he had for the ice, before it had been a challenge to surmount. He'd forgotten so much on the way up. Even the faces of his parents. He had a picture somewhere if he could find it. In his mind he only saw their backs driving away in a beige car, tires kicking up dust off the road. His fingertips had touched the warm glass of the window and fell back onto the handle of his suitcase, which he was taking with him on this train into his future, where no one would dare look away, because Victor was the brightest thing in every room.

He stirred his plain white rice mindlessly, drawing squiggles through it with a fork. Perhaps that was why he wanted Yuuri. Someone who could make his heart beat just by looking into his eyes. Maybe after all these years he hadn't been immune to the caring, to the solitude. No, he hadn't been untouchable. The ice made his body feel like fire as he skated, the cameras pointed at his face to show to the world Victor Nikiforov was champion once again; away from that he didn't have much. He'd been numb. He'd built a life around a puppy because he needed someone to love who wouldn't throw it back. He'd refused to compromise on his career with anyone who could place a demand on him. Their gaze hadn't been enough to pull him away. And when they found that life wasn't as exciting as they'd hoped, that gold medals and glamour weren't the same, they all left, and Victor was grateful he never seemed to mind all that much who came and who went. He was grateful he had such a light heart. He would carry on just the same, only tired, always tired.

Yuuri's eyes, their intoxicating caramel colour, pierced his skin and settled in his mind. And it was like he'd opened a wound Victor never knew he had. He couldn't find the cause, nor could he stem the tide. The overwhelming urge for closeness, for touch and caress made his head swirl. No wonder he'd failed his jumps. He wasn't a flame on the ice, he was still the fifteen year old, with too long legs, thrashing around like a wounded doe, with only the roughest idea what he was doing. It still hurt. Of course it hurt. The world was unfair: it gave a fifteen year old child the drive to achieve greatness, and then proved that no one, not even the great, were ever truly happy.

Victor was tired. Tired, and he wanted to speak to Yuuri. He washed up his plate and waited.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Final draft edit: this was meant to be cam girl au but I couldn't make smut work with abandonment issues, I'm really sorry. But if you want a fic that is about overcoming childhood trauma through strength and love, and a sweet fluffy ending then this is the fic for you! (sorry 'bout the smut though, I'm disappointed too)]


	2. Chapter 2

It was hard to tell which of them was more nervous when the loading wheel finally stopped turning and Yuuri's face appeared on screen. The glow of the desk light was velvety yellow over Yuuri's skin and made it look like honey. The edge of shyness in his voice as he waved hello was nothing Victor had expected after last night and staring at his screen he wasn't sure what to make of it. He seemed like a completely different person. Yuuri's wonderfully deep eyes that had held Victor entranced all of that day kept looking at anything except the camera in front of him, and Victor tried to reach desperately through the lens to catch them, to bring them back to him, but there was no way to reach.

So instead Victor drank in like liquor the pleasure of seeing him and felt swayed with the first waves of intoxication as Yuuri waved gently at the camera, at Victor. His heart stuttered. Before his brain caught up with his hand he'd waved back. Yuuri couldn't see and so couldn't tell, dropping his own hand quickly while Victor kept waving like an idiot. Yuuri was there, with him. He leaned in to type something at a keyboard under the camera and Victor immediately missed the feeling of his presence. A message popped up on the side of the screen.

> Victor are you there?

He wanted to take a few seconds to fully appreciate every aspect of Yuuri's expression; the way his eyes squinted slightly at the screen to write, how from this angle the smooth curve of his nose and his long black lashes were highlighted, how Yuuri seemed so much less certain than on that first video and all the more human for it. If only he could somehow get Yuuri to stare right into the camera, and through it right at Victor. But as that thought carried him he had a sudden panic that if he didn't make his presence known Yuuri might turn the video off and leave, which would be worse that anything. He typed back quickly.

> Yes!!

and then hesitated before adding:

> You look so beautiful, I got distracted... sorry...

He saw Yuuri catch his first message and jump back to wave again at the camera, glancing over just a second. Victor's stupid hand wouldn't learn its lesson; he waved back, echoing Yuuri's perfect smile with a dumb grin of his own. He couldn't help smiling, they were talking only to each other, in real time despite the distance of wherever Yuuri might be. Yuuri's eyes darted back below and read his next message. They widened ever so slightly. Then he laughed. Victor couldn't hear it, and that was a terrible shame, but he'd made Yuuri laugh. It was a different kind of rush to winning gold, a new feeling, but it left bubbles in his chest and a smile imprinted on his lips and Victor knew he could get hooked on it. Yuuri leaned back in to type.

> I'm sorry I'm a little late. I saw your picture and I honestly thought the person writing was pretending to be you, after I said that thing from that video.

In the slight internet lag Victor managed to catch the exact moment Yuuri blushed before sending, the hint of pink brushing the top of his cheeks. His throat tightened. If he was embarrassed about such a small thing as being caught out by someone he liked, Victor had to wonder what Yuuri would do if he told him he'd captured Victor's heart just by existing? That was a little cheesy and too fast, so Victor replied instead, trying his best to type neatly without for a second losing sight of Yuuri, wanting to make him comfortable so that perhaps his eyes would stop dancing around the camera.

> Surprise!!

Fresh new waves of warmth flooded his body when Yuuri laughed again and nodded, his whole expression disbelieving but the flush deepening on his ears. It was the most delightful pink, nothing at all like the angry red colour the Russian winters left if you stayed out in the cold too long. Whether he'd wanted Yuuri to be the same as in the video or something else, he didn't know, but he hadn't expected the sweetness Yuuri poured out the minute Victor replied hello.

They smiled stupidly at each other for a second, Yuuri all gold and pink and perfect and Victor blanched by the glow of his screen and so completely absorbed he didn't notice Makkachin pad silently into the room.

Yuuri was shy, he apologised, Yuuri wasn't really much like how he seemed in his videos. He'd tried but somehow he couldn't do it when he knew it was Victor watching, which was why he was so late (as though a few minutes were a crime) and he hoped Victor wouldn't be too disappointed.

Upset was the furthest thing away from how Victor felt. Confused why Yuuri wouldn't look back at him, definitely surprised at the difference, but far from angry. He'd loved confident Yuuri, the man who made lust and desire curl in tongues of flame under Victor's skin, and this had caught him by surprise but... he liked this Yuuri just as much.  
  
He was quieter and more withdrawn, clearly unhappy about being the only one on screen but he was sweet. They talked for five minutes that turned into a few hours about how Victor had come by him, about his life, where he was from. He'd learned English in Detroit but he was from Hasetsu, a town in Japan. They talked about being raised near the sea, about how they missed the smell of salt when they moved to bigger cities. The conversation which had started so stilted with Yuuri's apologies began to flow. In just a few minutes Victor shared small details of his life he'd stored in a little chest, dusted off the few fond memories no one had thought to ask about scattered like half-buried seashells in the sand. Makkachin came to rest where he normally did by Victor's pillow. His fingers wound naturally in his fur whenever he paused to let Yuuri reply. Like a pot brought up to simmer, humming on the stove, Victor was completely at ease.

In the end it was Yuuri who asked in a small voice whether Victor wanted a show and their eyes met at last, with what passed for an attempt at the smouldering look he had in his videos, but his shoulders hunched, bunched up under his t-shirt. Victor was never very good at reading the expressions of others but even he could tell Yuuri only offered reluctantly.

If given the choice of what he most wanted in the world right then, Victor would've sunk into the warm molten amber of Yuuri's pupils without a second thought, safe in his blushing, confusing, irresistible Yuuri. But despite his offer Victor saw from Yuuri's own gaze that he didn't want to be fucked over by Victor, didn't want Victor to tell him to do such and such under the cold, detached camera lens until he'd jerked off over Yuuri's body.

And it wasn't Yuuri's body alone that sent sparks running through Victor: it was the thought of Yuuri being there and wanting him just the same as Victor did, of their bodies sharing strokes and shivers, of kissing him and the scent of him rolling off their skin. He might be a cam boy but Victor wasn't interested in just fucking Yuuri. He wanted to make love to Yuuri. Nothing else would do.

He bit his lip to fight back a tiny part of him that did want to see Yuuri naked right then and there, and wrote back. Maybe once, or a few times, when he was little and he'd wanted someone to be his someone in the past, the rejection had cut through him, stabbed hot knives in his very flesh and left those seared bits of heart scared by the burn, cut open like steak. But Victor was ready, finally, to try again just one more time. So he told Yuuri.

> I think I'd rather wait until you let me kiss you in person.

Yuuri turned crimson. Already sparkling bright, he was becoming a rose right before Victor's eyes, that nodded its heavy head of blushing petals. He whispered good night. Victor kissed his fingertips and touched them to Yuuri on the screen. The video feed turned black and Victor shut his laptop off in a daze.

He hadn't said no. Didn't that mean by extent that he wasn't against meeting Victor, one day, maybe? Chris had warned him against thinking like that. But Chris always ignored his own advice anyway and something about Yuuri made Victor so happy, like he was touching cloud, like he was holding fire cupped in his hands, the fear of getting burned was so much less strong than the hypnotic light of the flames.

There was no sleep that night. Only whirling, disconnected thoughts running through Victor's mind, flashing in front of the blank ceiling of his room. They weren't happy or sad, only hard to process, too flitting and quick to pin down. Then as the dawn chorus of birds began chittering outside the window, Victor noticed how his hand was still reflexively stroking a sleeping, blissed-out Makkachin.

Perhaps the tiredness had changed. Victor hadn't notice the time pass and yet in the dawn hours the world had tilted on its axis. Though there were only a few hours before he would have to wake up and begin the day, the magic of the night hadn't completely left. And Victor knew that feeling would be there when he woke up, and throughout the day, and tomorrow, and after. Yuuri wanted him to. Yuuri might want him back, or at least give it a try which in fairness was all anyone could ask of him and more than Victor ever expected.

He turned onto his side and snuggled deep into Makkachin's brown fur, smelled his familiar dog smell and the disturbance in his sleeping breath until he settled down again. He always fell asleep hugging Makkachin. His beloved pet had a habit of licking the tears off Victor's face if he saw them, whining gently. But tonight he was already asleep and the tears that swept through Victor weren't of sadness. He nuzzled into the warm fur. It was early still and he mustn't get attached. And yet his heart swelled with relief, which slowly dripped down his cheeks.

 

***

 

Chris complained to Victor the next day that he was the only man in the world who would pay for sex without getting any, but they laughed. He knew Chris still worried about him, especially after what Victor had said, but he also couldn't deny the possibility that for Yuuri as well it might be something more.  
  
Victor had realised last night it was something beyond lust. Or not beyond but different, satisfying in a way he couldn't put his finger on, that tied knots around his heart he never wanted to loosen. He'd had lovers and sex. They were always fun. People who came and went, on more or less amicable terms, without Victor's involvement. He often felt that lovers happened to him, in the way a shower of rain passed over his head sometimes, or a cloud broke and the sun shone on the back of his neck, and felt not an inch of gratitude or regret about them. Things out of his control, either pleasant or occasionally inconvenient that would pass in time.  
  
Lovers came to Victor every now and then and satisfied themselves with the idea of him, so when they parted ways it was never a question of disillusion. Sex was a thing he could perform, that was expected. But after the feverish hand-holding of his youth, when desperation clung onto his kisses and his crushes couldn't compete with his schedule, that mood soon passed and he was perfunctory. He knew what to do and how to do it and even if for him there was no real feeling of connection attached to the sex, his partner left satisfied which was enough for Victor to imagine the relationship was going well. They left still firm in the belief they had known Victor Nikiforov and yes, he was every bit the dedicated, unruffled athlete people believed him to be.

A slightly sour note had been a tell-all story that claimed he showed more emotional range to his dog than he did to his partner. Victor hadn't objected when he'd been called and asked whether the interview was ok: it was true. Perhaps some of them had suspected there was more beneath the surface than he was letting on, but all in all Victor found once he'd hidden away his heart and sold his soul for gold medals, the craving for affection he'd had in his younger days was suppressed. It was a nasty trick of life that as soon as he resolved he could live without it, love came freely given and freely taken away, as the tide washing over undisturbed sand.

And then there was Yuuri and it wasn't like a tide at all. It was an immediate pain like hot wax dripping down his chest, it was happiness at hearing his voice and longing at the sight of him, urges to touch him, hold him close in his arms, close to his everywhere and feel the heat shared between their two bodies. It was the sensation that his long-restrained heart had gone absolutely crazy. With Yuuri he couldn't have hidden anything if he'd tried, it wasn't an option. He could wonder about it for weeks but the simplest way of explaining this feeling was that when his eyes met Yuuri's, his heart sighed “yes”, and every feeling was agonized bliss. Victor could have made a relationship work with any of the other people, but he could only ever have fallen in love with Yuuri.

They kept up their calls. At first through the site and then, when Yuuri realised how much Victor was paying for the hours and hours they stayed up late just to chat, through Skype. Once they began talking on there, Victor was near tears. No longer a customer but someone Yuuri voluntarily put time aside for, someone worthwhile. He changed his behaviour to respect that, making sure to avoid calling whenever he felt like it, to leave Yuuri enough time around his work hours to relax. He couldn't risk annoying Yuuri, making himself an imposition and driving him away.

Instead of calling Yuuri the minute he took Makkachin off his leash and let the big dog bounce up onto the couch, he cooked. When he showered it was with his phone as close as possible to the door and on full volume so that even under the water he wouldn't miss the sound if it rang. He'd had calls that started with Victor leaping out of the shower with shampoo still dripping from his hair, and ended with him curled in front of the radiator with the sun going down, still naked, half dry shampoo crusted to his skin and phone cradled against his ear. Yuuri called once a day, when it was early evening for Victor and late at night for him and Victor lived for those calls. Yuuri was a night owl, but that was just fine by him, because it meant they could stay talking for hours despite the time difference without having to worry about Yuuri falling asleep, or about waking up early for training.

After their first few conversations where Victor was invisible, just a chat box on screen, Yuuri preferred phone calls. Victor regretted the loss of seeing his Yuuri, but what he gained was the immediacy of his voice down the line and that was a thrill of its own. He'd never have guessed Yuuri was camera shy till he heard him talk for the first time on the phone, on and on for hours with every trace of inhibition gone. Perhaps it was because he associated the camera with what he did for work that made him so on edge when he was not performing, but for Victor as long as Yuuri was happy there was no sacrifice. He loved everything about Yuuri and the sound of his voice was nothing short of bliss in Victor's opinion.

Yuuri shared the fullness of his life with Victor; his family, his doubts, his past and his future and Victor offered the little that he had in exchange, but there wasn't much to say. He was glad he'd won gold at the Olympics, he was grateful that Yakov was the sort of coach to give him rigour while accepting his creative independence. What more was there to say? He had no real family and few friends, and Yuuri, sensing a sensitive subject, left it alone.

At the rink things could have been better. It was very late in the season to make the changes Victor planned to his two performances and to go back to the composers for variations on the music, but Victor enraged Yakov and did both. Of course Yakov knew Victor was capable of incredible things, but radically altering his performance to rely on technical points and spins rather than the quads Victor was known for seemed like suicide even to him. But Victor was a story-teller, and if his story had wildly changed in the middle and taken a brand new path, who was he to stop the main character's footsteps? Victor surprised through extraordinary acts. Through quads and spin combinations people had never seen done before, through the emotion of his music and the flame dancing above the ice, calling in all eyes. Like Yuuri, when he was on camera, when he commanded every bit of attention on himself because you knew, you just knew, that he was going to be incredible.

But what had Yuuri been underneath? A quiet, a shy beauty. The sort of person who inspired songs of home, a feeling of return to something he didn't even know he had lost until he found it again. No surreal being, no demon or star, only someone human and kind who drew towards him that kindness in return. That had been the greatest surprise of all, so that was what Victor was going to skate. A program inspired by Yuuri and for him, about waking up to this strange new familiar, being woken with a kiss. _La Belle au Bois Dormant_ , Sleeping Beauty. He'd told stories in all of his performances, but this demanded something radically different, something unexplored. His excitement, long-dormant through years of stressful urgency, raised its head and sniffed the air hopefully. It tasted a little like freedom.

Looking at Yakov, cross-armed and tight-lipped by the side of the rink, Victor knew he suspected something was happening in his head, that a change had taken place to knock over what Victor himself had cemented over the years, shedding personalities like snake skins. Yakov and Victor both knew his heart wasn't strong enough to compete and be himself at the same time. But what Victor was proposing was so wild, so completely playing against his recognised strengths, the only possible explanation was that his steel determination had melted. He wasn't playing to win. Yakov pinched his brows in disapproval, accepting that Victor was not likely to change his mind. Perhaps it would be time to retire soon. Yakov had so wanted him to bow out in a blaze of glory. But Victor had another surprise up his sleeve just for all of them.

The skaters gathered round the rink to watch Victor's new program in silence, a triumphant glint in the eyes of some, sensing incoming disaster, concern in his friends' that he'd gone off the deep end, but Victor tucked in for a spin with a glowing satisfaction: they didn't yet realise, none of them. He was the golden standard, he set the standard and had done for years, he saw more and more skaters performing in his image, following his tracks. Victor though was bored of all that. Let them copy him: he was going to break the rules.

And then he was going to win anyway.

It wasn't clear even to him if he was breaking out of his shell, or if he was growing out of it, or simply discarding this one final mask as he had so many before it. All Victor knew is that for the first time he felt happy, genuinely happy. Yakov pulled his hair out in frustration but nothing could shatter his unshakeable confidence, which only grew with every phone call. There were still sad evenings of course, in the empty St. Petersburg apartment with only Makkachin in another room and the hot water tank gurgling through the silence. There were still days when he felt the world in shadows was waiting to pounce and draw away everything he'd ever won and crush him into the dirt. He knew Yuuri wasn't the be all and end all, the solution to all his problems. Yuuri had his own problems. But Yuuri soothed the overwhelming need to be seen. What did thousands of tiny pin-prick faces forming a crowd matter, when Victor was curled in bed with Yuuri listening to him, with Yuuri's voice in his ear? The rest of the world was finally gone. With Yuuri already there, Victor hardly needed the crowd at all. Their only role was to let Victor please and delight them.

When Yuuri rang, Victor knew someone out there wanted to know his day, small things about his life that would be acknowledged, petty things and funny things. And Victor could do the same. He got to hear about Yuuri's problems and Yuuri's day, and they tended to be far more interesting than his own (or at least Victor found them fascinating). The onsen his parent's ran had a problem with condensation in one of the rooms spoiling the wood. They had to replace and repaint. Yuuri could never find reasonably priced batteries for the foreign toys he had that used all kinds of strange sizes. He was sick of changing sheets at work and at home.

The first few times they'd spoken about Yuuri's work, Victor had had to fight back a lick of jealousy in his thoughts. He was in love with Yuuri, of course he didn't want to share him. The idea of strangers seeing his beautiful Yuuri's naked skin when Victor himself couldn't touch it was infuriating. But for Yuuri, the work was like a whole different side of him. He'd started because of frustration, the lack of romantic options and his own anxiety conspiring to make him permanently single, but soon enough he'd begun forming a popular following. He made a lot of money at this. There was pressure to perform and on camera this was something he could do without the anxiety eating away at him. It felt different to real life. But Victor was himself with Yuuri, and Yuuri felt he could be more of his everyday self with Victor.

Once it became clear to both of them there was a chance their hopes might become reality, they agreed to take it slowly. Yuuri said Victor shouldn't let himself get washed under by the huge tide of pent up affection he'd been holding back, Yuuri was clever, and Victor knew Yuuri hadn't allowed many people near his heart at all, and that the trust would take time to build. Victor had time. Competitive figure skaters might live lives as brief as fireflies on the ice, but thinking past tomorrow, Victor had the rest of his life to give after. If Yuuri would have him, it was his to take. Victor kept his proposal quietly under wraps. He had time to live, for now he had to perform and he was excited to do that for him.

It was a few months in to the new regime of training, shortly before qualifiers, and he was riding high on a wave of Yuuri telling him he wore contacts and that his glasses were blue, leading to a whole load of daydreams on Victor's part of gently kissing Yuuri's mouth and bumping his forehead against his glasses, then pulling them off a laughing Yuuri before kissing him again, all sweet from laughter and kissing, when the call came. It was too early in the evening for it to be him. No one but Yuuri and Chris, occasionally Yakov or Milla, rang him.

He picked up the unknown number. Her voice on the line was calm, foreign. She asked Victor if he spoke French. He replied yes.

The nurse explained to him with her quiet bedside manner that his father had been diagnosed with stage four cancer. He was old, already frail. It was a matter of months at best and he should begin to make arrangements for when the time came.

Victor sat down on the sofa, legs numb. Instead of replying for some reason he marked the time on his watch. Five in the afternoon.

Had his father asked to see him, he asked. She was phoning at the hospital's discretion, she answered. She was sorry that there was not more to be done. Victor couldn't recall later how he said goodbye, but she'd hung up.

He stared blindly at the apartment surrounding him. The sink, the kitchen, a chair by the window. It felt unreal.

His father's death was something he'd been aware of as a possibility, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, but it was a concept, not an event.

It had been almost a decade since he'd won the Olympics and his mother had died. He'd tried to let the pride of the first drown out the guilt of the second, but he had to confess really he'd always associated the two. At the funeral his father had barely looked at him, didn't seem to even recognise him. He'd been planning to stay overnight but it was impossible. He couldn't stand to be alone with him, but strongly felt he shouldn't have to stay in a hotel in the town where his parents lived. Victor took a taxi and a return flight the very same day. She was buried in the cemetery, by the steeple of a faded church. The ground was baked, the funeral mound frittered dirt onto the shoes of the congregation. He could remember that, but how his mother had been? How she'd looked before she died? In his mind his mother was buried in that blue sundress she always favoured, and her face was fresh and young. His father would have made sure he had a double lot. He would have the space next to her. Victor would have to remember the name and call, to check. But he didn't have the energy right then.

His father hadn't asked for him. Even on his death bed he left it to mother to be the go-between, and mother was gone. They'd never had any other children. When Victor was old enough to see his parents as people he wondered why they'd had any children at all. He never knew what he'd been like as a baby. He never knew his grandparents names, only that they were dead, mysterious background figures in the small collection of family photographs collecting dust on the piano. What had his father done before he retired, where were his parents from, how did they meet, did all the people on his mother's side have the same silvery hair as Victor, did all his father's family have his blue eyes? And the question underlying it all: why this silence, why was he always kept away when he'd been craving their love like a battered dog? Like he was dying of thirst. He was about as likely to get an answer as the family photo album was to be filled in with pictures of baby Vitya's first steps. The pages were blank.

Yuuri called later that evening, after Makkachin had given up asking for a walk and was whining at the door. Victor found it pouring out of him like a confession, the whole story, like Yuuri could make it go away.

He was born in St Petersburg on Christmas day, and because of this his school mates had teased him that he only got presents once a year. It made him sad that his birthday was always going to be the less important of the two celebrations. He'd told the lady in the toy shop that the train set wasn't for Christmas, but for his birthday, and she'd smiled at his mother and said he must be a wonderful gift for her. Victor had felt the world expand in delight at the new possibility that he was a present, and took in everything from the glass display window to the bright red train engine in his hands with fresh colours, exploding vividly onto his six year old's consciousness. His mother smiled drily and paid for the toy to be wrapped. The following year they installed an ice rink in front of the church, and Victor prayed to the boy born the same day as him that he'd get ice skates. He got ice skates. His mother sent him with Ludmilla from downstairs, whose own children had grown up and moved away, to skate on the rink.

The others skated like little pieces of magic, round and round in smooth lines but Victor skated like fire. Somehow his feet just knew what to do. He slipped and fell of course, but he also flew. He was taken to lessons. He'd hoped his mother and father might come to a recital one day, if he worked very hard. He would make himself a present with his talent just for them, for Christmas day. They'd receive it with joy. They received it with a “That was good” that didn't quite taste the same. Christmas day was not a big celebration in Russia. He needed to work harder.

In summer they went to the _dacha_. In the first few days they stayed in the summer house, spring kept its chill. Victor was bundled into the usual woollen layers and sent to the beach. He played in the sand because the water was freezing. When it finally heated up enough for t-shirts and sandals, he wandered around the village unchecked. There were few children around, and none Victor's own age. He tried playing with the older ones but struggled to keep up. He was too young to be an unofficial babysitter. He was alone most summers.

There was only so often he could play football against imaginary opponents. He ended up practised his stretches and routines undisturbed in the field behind his house until he could perform them to perfection, but it was still too quiet. He looked forward to going back to school. His father gave his mother money to buy him new school things. He got a new pencil case every year. He liked the shiny plastic ones. His father preferred wood. He went to school with his pencils rattling in a wooden case.

He'd felt weak for wanting hugs before bed, and ashamed when he fell skating that he secretly wished they'd kiss his knees better, but never once had he disliked them. He'd never resented his parents. Or at least not in a way he could admit. Father took him fishing once or twice, and Victor had gotten very bored at having to sit in total silence. He needed to move his ever stretching legs. It was his incapacity to sit still that meant they came home empty handed, was his father's only comment about the trip. Victor's eyes stung with tears. He would not make the same mistake again. He gave up repeating his routines and learned to sit still by practising for hours instead. It was very dull. When he had prepared he asked whether they could go again the following week. They did not go fishing again, his father didn't seem to trust him to hold himself. Victor showed he could at every dinner by stopping his feet from wiggling under the table. They didn't go anyway, Victor had blown his chance. He was angry. He went back to practising his skates. No one said a word that he'd stopped sitting frozen on the veranda.

At home he did not have to be with them for long. They ran through an endless list of invitations and it was more common to see them in evening dress than round the dinner table. Victor was picked up from the rink by their neighbour, until he was old enough to walk himself home. Food was in the oven, mother's perfume, a lingering trace in the air. He kept practising.

Hold still till you're on the ice. Then become a gift.

The recitals never worked well enough to satisfy him. He didn't feel like a gift at all. In attendance at the front row, their faces stern, Victor felt like a burden. He called over and over, mastering things beyond what anyone his age could do. Faster, brighter than anyone around. Everything about being on the ice was perfect. He felt like leaping fire. They applauded politely, they had seen. It was enough to fan the flame. He wanted to make Christmas a big deal. He should learn to accept it was not.

Yuuri kept quiet. He didn't say a word when Victor told him about the disappointment of the first few competitions that had clashed with his mother developing a head cold, they had not been in attendance. He'd played to the crowd instead and their applause lingered in his mind long after he'd come off the ice. It was the first time he'd noticed that perhaps they saw how he tried. He stayed silent as Victor recalled the first trip to Yakov's training, the very first time he'd looked forwards to summer break. When the final rejection broke over him with its disastrous finality, and Victor finally got the message, Yuuri's sigh was of such a wounded sadness Victor couldn't tell what to make of it. He could have stopped talking then, and not burden Yuuri with his loneliness, or chain him down with his words, but finally getting it all out of his head was an immense relief. Yuuri would accept him. Yuuri already had accepted him.

His repeated shushes when Victor finally reached the Olympics, the surge of anger that suddenly erupted when he saw the missed call, dismissing it all to rejoin the celebrations. And then his guilt, how he lost who he performed for, and the sobs dragged out of the back of his throat like fat, heavy stones, but Yuuri anchored him to the room, calmed him. Missing her call. Winning the gold. His pride and his burning, burning shame. Yuuri heard it all.

Only a few months until what was left of his father's broad, silent back would vanish from the world and live on only in Victor's memory. It had taken him so long to even recognise his loneliness, to try and find a time when he hadn't felt that way, he'd never found a way to truly resent his parents. They left him bewildered, they left him hurt, but he couldn't bring himself to properly let go. Behind Victor Nikiforov who went out and performed extraordinary acts all for himself, Victor was always waiting for a visit, a moment to redeem himself from whatever he had done that made his parents ignore him.

“How do you know you did anything wrong?” Yuuri's voice was cloaked in pity. Victor never liked the sound of pity till it came out of Yuuri's lips and there it didn't hurt at all. But Victor couldn't understand the question.

“Why else would they have done so?”

Yuuri didn't have an answer. Qualifiers were coming up, Victor would make the necessary arrangements as best he could from St. Petersburg but he had no time. Yuuri kissed his thumb and pressed the pad on the receiver. The warm, muffled sound of it brushing against his ear was not quite as good as a real kiss on the cheek would have been, but Victor's heart responded to it anyway, quickening. He did the same. Yuuri wished him good night. He was so lucky to have Yuuri.

 

***

 

He skated through all the pre-competition with ease. His scores were not as high as usual. Commentators were baffled at the new programs and much speculation was had over whether Victor had lost his grip. More malicious news spread that his back and legs could no longer take the strain of his quad jumps. Victor coasted through it all to finals with impassiveness and a respectably high score. His routine was a one-time only, and meant only for one pair of eyes. So he saved the full extravagance.

Meanwhile Victor found himself taking the route he'd meticulously avoided up to this point, skirting the centre of the city and out south towards where his parents had lived. Makkachin found everything, from the tarmacked road with its deeply potted surface to the first few tower blocks, had a whole new surface of smells he had not yet known and tugged slightly at the leash as he tried to run to take them in all at once. For Victor however the walk was less about excitement. He had a few things he wanted to settle with St. Petersburg.

He knew there were certain things he would struggle to let go. The urge to win gold, his fierce sense of self on the ice, the look of slick lines and the smell of damp pine woods drying in the summer sun. These were things to hang onto. Perhaps the reason he found himself incontrovertibly falling more in love with Yuuri every day was that sense that despite everything Yuuri was someone to hang onto. Not quite comfortable enough to be relied upon in the same way as when Victor watched television he didn't even have to look for the coffee table to put his drink down, his arm simply knew how far the stretch was and placed his drink perfectly every time while his eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching whatever period drama he could find, or a police show if there were no pretty costumes to be had. No, Yuuri wasn't an every day thing. But Yuuri was something edging within grasp, something that required the extra stretch, the conscious effort of forcing every muscle in his arm out to reach, like raising his arms in the final Biellmann and feeling gold dangling just up a few notches, ready to be taken. It was an effort that was addictive, it was an effort as easy as breathing to him because of course it was worth the trial.

Another thing he struggled to let go of, one ingrained in him from root to leaf so much so that like a young shoot he'd grown around the need till it was swallowed and sutured into his core. It had started in this neighbourhood. He'd come this far, he'd come to the end of the St. Petersburg metro line to the south, in the middle of Moskovsky District, and then a second train out of to Pushkin, where his parents had lived. He'd avoided coming here, but here he was after all. He wouldn't find it easy to let go.

Pre-war buildings, pre-revolution mansions a whole world away from the outskirts of Petersburg with their stern, depressing architecture. The surfacing tiles of Soviet blocks were not crumbling away from the walls after countless winters of freezing and thawing forcing them apart. Here there were none. The roofs slopped steeply to chuck off the winter snow and funnel it down particular chutes. If Victor hadn't chosen the modern conversion he lived in, he'd eventually have bought a flat along one of these streets. But he'd always held back. These buildings were in the old style, they reminded him of the large tiled chimney in their country house, with the sealed metal door on the side so that nothing but heat radiated out of the stove. They reminded him of a country that didn't really exist any more, and the self Victor had been who was no longer around, nor something he could return to. He'd come too far, even for the calm streets of his parents' world and his childhood.

At a corner sat a large circular advertising stand in the Parisian style. Then passed the crossroads and a street of cream coloured buildings leading up to a large, iron gated square. Beyond that the pale blue walls of the Convent, which rose up like a Western palace until the eyes reached the domes, with their classically Russian onion shape covered in gold of course, topped with the Orthodox cross, reminded everyone that St. Petersburg was not quite Europe. Apparently the stand was a popular spot with the local dogs, because Makkachin immediately wanted to go and sniff around it, but Victor had sights to see. The Church of the Saviour on Blood might be more traditionally Russian, but the Convent and the streets around it were where Victor had grown up, and where he had celebrated Easter.

He'd expected something in these once familiar streets to trigger his memory, but so little had changed since then. There was no obvious new shop, sticking out like a sore thumb to remind him of the passage of time. Behind the gate to the Convent there was still room to fit an ice rink. They were just the same as ever, the streets with the same little old ladies wandering their little old dogs, with the same fussy coats and buttons. The same trees offering the same shade lining buildings where the same windows were open and the same closed, the smell of cooking never changing in the air, the menu forever repeating. Everything down to the unfixed potholes that had burst the tire of his father's old car. He'd changed the dark blue one for a beige in a newer model, the same car that a few years later would drive away from the train station and leave Victor to face the future alone.

What he'd hoped for was some kind of epiphany. A ghost of Christmas passed to rise up from the sewer grill and take Victor back to the moment when his parents had loved him, and he'd proved himself unworthy of their love. The street remained painfully average and ghostless. He walked passed the front door of his old apartment building but didn't stop. To Makkachin, it was as if the street was as impersonal as any other. There was nothing to mark it as special bar the expensive apartments and the general air of wealth so lacking from most of Russia's suburbs. Down the road was the bus stop. Four stops until the ice rink. He'd been lucky it was so close. He'd been lucky downstairs' neighbour was so willing to take him, her rough hand patched from years of scrubbing children's clothes enclosed firmly over Victor's. If any of those had been different, he would not have been walking down this road today. If it hadn't been for his need to impress his mother and father, he might never have won those early golds. If it hadn't been for the realisation that that would never happen, his entire life would have been different, perhaps happier.

It wouldn't have Yuuri in it though, that was for sure.

In the end, his old neighbourhood didn't tell Victor anything. He hadn't really expected it would but it was nevertheless disappointing. Everyone he knew from then was either dead or like his parents had moved away. A crowd of new and identical people had taken the place of Ludmilla, of the school children coming down the road. There was nothing secret or special, at least at this surface level. If Victor wanted any answer, he would have to turn to the big wide wall of silence, more remote even than his mother, the last person alive who could tell him why he'd spent so long with the belief that real love was something he hadn't yet earned, and would never earn.

If he wanted any answer at all (and was he even sure that he did?), after so many years of hoping the situation would somehow resolve, the solution appear before him like a missing puzzle piece to sort out the confused mess of his feelings into a neat picture, it seemed Victor now had a time limit. But the thought of facing that man again, who hadn't even smiled, or cried, or consoled his own son at the side of his mother's grave, was terrifying.

He went to the finals. Nearly a month had passed. In the last rehearsals, Victor knew he couldn't go alone. His greatest weakness was thinking he was strong enough alone. But alone was how silence won. And Victor wasn't alone any more. He had Makkachin of course, but now he had...

“Yuuri, after competitions, will you come and see my father with me?” His question hung between them while Yuuri thought about it, Victor praying he would accept. Yuuri gave it a characteristic amount of careful thought before he replied, “Are you sure? This might be your last time seeing him. It seems rude to bring someone he doesn't know.” Victor was absolutely sure. He would reimburse Yuuri for the plane tickets and whatever expenses if Yuuri would come. He knew it was inconvenient and asking too much. Yuuri refused all of it. “I'll go, you don't have to pay a thing. Because it's for you, and you don't want to go alone. So I'll come.”

Victor was totally and utterly in love with a man he'd never met. Unconditional surrender.

Finals were round the corner.

Makkachin watched all of this undisturbed from the comfort of Victor's sofa, paw dangling off the edge. Little did he know in a matter of days he would be taking a flight to meet his owner's last living family member. There would be a strange new human with them. Makkachin sniffed his coat. The world was a confusing place for a dog, he would stick close by his master's side. Just in case.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay but it's here! I think to spare myself being a liar again, the third chapter should take another week.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you want to find me on [tumblr](https://nakanowardcat.tumblr.com/), you'll get much better update notices etc. and future fics (I have a more extended historical Yuri on Ice AU planned next! with art! and fancy places! and boats??? check it out!) 
> 
> For the aesthetic I took some liberties. The "Convent" Victor talks about is based on the Smolny Convent. It is in fact a complex of buildings, located centrally within St. Petersburg, not the town of Pushkin. It's also quite impossible Victor ever celebrated Easter there in his childhood, as the Convent was closed from 1923 until 1986 as a result of Soviet atheism, after which it was reopened as a concert hall. It only went back to being a church in 2015. However it is an extremely beautiful building and I feel no shame in appropriating it for the purposes of the story.


	3. Chapter 3

After months of speculation about his skill and his possibly failing body, here he was, the crown prince of the rink - back with a surprise.

_Be reborn again and again on the ice._

Victor paused, skates on the edge. The crowd was calling his name. To the side, as always, behind his stony facade Yakov's hands gripped tight on his own coat sleeves. Out of the corner of his eye he gave the nod. The stage was set. He always loved the bated breath of the crowd, just a moment of pause before...

Victor took his first step out to furious applause. Their anticipation and their love, he'd fed off it for years. That instant he’d returned to, time after time, when he'd tried to believe nothing else had mattered but him, the crowd, and the ice.

But tonight he was not here for them. He bowed and raised his arms in acknowledgement without his usual dazzling smile. He was not here to force a flashlight over himself and pour out a year's worth of loneliness and dissatisfaction. The program's difficulty was raised a hundredfold from the last performance. When he'd shown it in rehearsal to Yakov, the man had finally understood: this was a farewell to Victor Nikiforov. Victor the skater was born on the ice at last, just as he was.

 _Be reborn on the ice_. 

He'd carried the words like a charm. They were his own special talisman. A rebirth from one being into another, from one form, stunted and limited - childish - to another; grown, the perfect mixture of freedom and control. 

When that form didn’t bring him satisfaction, again it was shed. To let the past fall off, to put on a new personhood, and feel it cling to his skin like silk.

_… again and again..._

This time, then, maybe it would be enough. This time, it surely had to be enough...

_… and again..._

Shred the silk to tatters and try again. How could years pass and it never be enough?

_… again on the ice._

Here was the shining plane, the setting of countless stories and calls Victor had sent out unheard. He closed his eyes to the start of the music.

A song that was a little sweet, a little lonely, nothing too much. A song that was Victor in his moments alone.

In his head, he was alone on the ice. In his head there were the jeers, which he could muffle, and in his heart the old, familiar hollow feeling which he could not. Victor was sick of that emptiness. _Sick, sick, sick, sick of it_. Try as he might to shed or to hide, there it stayed locked in his core. To carve out some part of him so deeply under his skin would be to break himself.

So he began to skate to a memory that had hurt him so much he carried it with him for the rest of his life, the grit around which the pearl had formed trying to smooth out the rub, to even out the pain.

_Again._

There was a motion he could make with his body. If he made it the crowd would cheer. He’d practiced it so many times at sixteen that he’d left the ice each night with inch deep grooves in its surface. These were steps that made his legend. This was how he held the crowd at his fingertips. It had worked on everyone, with two stinging exceptions.

His motion was perfection and perfection was a rare currency. Victor had earned it with sweat and training. What better way to surprise them all now than with imperfection? Imperfection was innate and honest, imperfection was born of the moment. Only Victor could perfect that.

 _To be reborn._  

He’d honestly tried. If there was nothing else to show for his life, the aches in his feet that could surely never fade away completely by now, they were his honesty. He’d wanted the crowd, he’d wanted the praise, he’d wanted... wanted something warmer than mornings on the ice, something softer than the hard leather of new skates. Arms you could sink into, love you could fall back on.

Though clean as ever his landing was fragile, teetering on the legs of a newborn deer, ready to buckle from the weight, followed by a delicate and fumbling little step sequence on the edge of collapse. Victor wanted to cry. What more could one expect from a fourteen year old boy who could already land a quad but couldn’t get a hug?

What more could you expect from the man he became?

_Again and again…_

Spins and jumps, showpony moves that Victor had transformed from clumping necessities into delicate graces, had turned them into the gilded feathers of his wings.

Higher he flew, carried on talent and training. What more could they expect of him? What more could they want he could give?

Victor could dance on his toes, he could wrap movement around him like a cloak. He could show you the seared result of decades of dedication to an art when it was warped, when it served to gild a hole. When the performer is less than human. Frenetic. Uncontrolled. Here was intensity, here was every precious jewel you wanted to see, thrown in the furnace, and emerging in blazing, strange forms.

He was perfection. And it cut him like a knife to be it.

He held his arms high, the extra difficulty points less important than the message he conveyed: here he was, _look at me, look at me..._

Anything for them to turn around and stop: anything it took for them to _see him_ he would do.

His head was reeling and the ice scraped and crackled. 

Too much. He was doing too much. He reached from a slide and threw away caution in a step sequence that turned the world to blurs...

_Again and again._

A clean jump. A slick landing, getting all the rotations in, but he was tired. Not only from his front stacked program. He was tired of playing the part, tired of the pace, tired of it all. His legs no longer shook but he was discordant with the music. 

Where was the heat of his desperation? Where was the heart of his performance? He’d spent so long tearing his flesh apart for this. It made his head spin, looking down from the dizzying heights of his jumps. Yakov warned him not to do that or he'd screw up the landing. 

Victor looked down, just once, to see how high his training had lifted him off the ice that lay opalescent beneath him. His body left not even a shadow upon it, only the cut of his blades where he’d jumped, and the cut of his blades coming where he’d land. 

His foot hit the ice. 

And he was perfect, his other leg swinging out to balance him. No fall, the approach and the landing perfect and his lowered head a flawless flaw. 

_Be reborn._

So this was ice. Something hard, ready to commit every one of his faults as a scratch on its surface, and upon which Victor had danced like no one ever would again - perfect, imperfect, free. 

Laughter and tears bubbled at his throat. What sort of vanity could draw people to devote their lives to it? 

On a winter’s day in St. Petersburg, a little boy took his first clumsy step onto the ice, on a journey that would take him all the way over the other side of pain, and home again to the ice.

Here he’d danced enslaved in everything that made life unbearable to live, enthralled in a memory he couldn’t escape and here, in this moment, he could break those shackles at his feet, crush them under his blades. 

_Reborn._

Just a little lick of flame. Just a bright dancing light. That was all he'd ever been from even his youngest days - a swirl of hair and a ball of promise. What more could you ask for? Everything else was smoke and mirrors and distraction.

A step sequence of simple elegance, a flourish he carried in his fingertips, weightless.

Suffocation, repressed anger had raised the little light into a blazing forge and he'd built greatness on the ice out of his own horrible loneliness, but this time he set it free. When he found he’d been looking for attention in the wrong place, for the right reasons.

A sweet lilt of piano joined the violin.

The silver flick of his hair danced just so, the flash of his golden blades on the ice, everything perfect and right and _whole_ . Because his time had come. Because someone had set his feet back into the music, woken him, _seen_ him, really seen and their movements could follow each other echoed across the ice in their own harmony and he was _free_ , not shedding a skin. He was free.

On a river bank in St. Petersburg he’d played fetch with his Makkachin. Wrapped in blankets on the phone he’d listened to such a warm and welcoming voice. No more darkness; he would try and tip the scales.

A tension like electricity crackled in the air. Victor could feel his approach in the music as he launched into his final combination jump. The final trail to leave on the ice tonight was for them together.

Victor brought himself to his side in a thoughtful little combination he'd planned just like a waltz. His hands touched the shoulders of his invisible partner. He was home. He'd never felt home, but surely the happiness blocking up his throat, the wave of tears spilling over from the depths of his chest and brimming in his eyes, that was the feeling of being home after a long time away. Home on the ice, home in his embrace. There wasn’t a word that made him cry more than all the colour and twinkling lights suggested by the word _home_.

Of course in his mind the arms of the man that held him were Yuuri's. Of course he saw nothing but Yuuri's hopeful smile and his face as the music came to a close. Victor could practically feel the warm comfort of his arms, even trembling from the exhaustion of the rink. The clawing desperation of his masks didn’t matter: he and they and Victor were one same person, alive on the ice. He’d always been reaching for someone to love him back: here he was, finally reaching a hand back. His smile was for Yuuri and Yuuri alone, and the seconds where they were truly together seemed to stretch on eternally, safe in the knowledge that he was wanted, safe in the knowledge he'd been rescued... The piece was in place. His heart glowed with warmth. The music trembled, held, and silenced.

_Reborn on the ice._

Home.

 

The screams and applause exploded all at once and overwhelmingly. Yuuri, all shadow and smoke but lingering on in Victor's head even though the piece was done, held Victor's hand to the edge of the rink, and only when Victor took his first step off it did he turn around to see him fade, the touch of his fingers slipping away, leaving a white expanse of ice, the cuts through it forming neatly glittering lines. But Victor wasn't sad to leave it. He didn't wonder how many months it would be before he felt so seen again, and he had no rush of longing to return, to keep all eyes on him. Two days from then he was seeing his prince. He put on his skate guards with one last look at the twinkling ice.

He would return to it, again and again, but on his own terms now. He thanked it with a strange feeling of fondness for always being there for him. Despite every burden he'd placed in the rink in the past with no satisfaction, he'd always remain in love with it, but without the expectations now, without burdening it. Only for the joy of being there.

He smiled a little wryly. No more burning down every season. No more collecting the ashes. Perhaps his phoenix days were behind him, but he could still win. He’d more than proven it with this.

At the Kiss and Cry, Yakov patted him on the back firmly. They didn't have to say anything, because Yakov already knew what this performance meant and with the full exhaustion of the skate beginning to hit him at last, Victor was too tired to explain even his most basic emotions. They sat in silence as his score was announced and the auditorium went crazy once more. The last world record he’d set lay shattered in pieces under the might of this one.

Yakov gave a gruff laugh. “That should stop the retirement rumours. You did well.” Victor met his pouchy eyes. They'd been there since his youth. He owed Yakov honesty. He took a deep breath. “When the gala is over, I'm going to visit my father.” Yakov's expression stiffened visibly. “And after that, maybe I'll take a break. I have to clear my head of some things.” Yakov still sat frozen, until they were gently shuffled off the Kiss and Cry by the game organizers.

He'd take a break. He needed to meet Yuuri. He had to face his past. He needed to live for something other than those three minutes of competition. Yakov could disapprove but he couldn't argue.

They hung a gold medal around Victor's neck.

Victor looked round the sea of flashing cameras, the joy on their faces. These were the people he'd worked so hard to impress, and he was grateful to them for responding so warmly to him. It had never been enough but until now it had been all he could get and it kept him alive, sustained him just enough to keep going in the face of the empty pit that was his personal life.

Not everyone would be happy the rumours of his demise were false, but for once Victor didn't have the little nag of pressure reminding him that next time he would again have to be different, he would again have to surpass himself and be extraordinary. He'd skated for love. How could love fail to win?

There were more important things. He was going to meet Yuuri. His heart fluttered at the prospect.

Chris nudged him in the ribs from down in third place. He whispered out of the corner of his mouth while his smile stayed fixed in place:

“You look dazed.”

Victor's composed smile was taken over by his normal one, the heart shaped grin he'd tried very hard to get rid of, but even as he replied he could feel his mind go dreamy, go back to dancing with his imaginary Yuuri on the ice only a short while ago.

“I'm thinking about my prince.”

Chris snorted, knowing perfectly well who Victor was thinking of, and returned to waving at the cameras gleefully.

“I can't believe you won gold _again_ thanks to me. I really screwed up.” 

Victor blinked, shocked, under the final flash of the cameras before they turned away. The picture taking was over. The Canadian in second place wandered off with a whoop. Victor turned back to his friend and took his hand in both of his, squeezing it urgently. “Chris, don't say that. You saved my life. Maybe not literally but... no. You saved my life with that video. I don't know what I would have done eventually. I need Yuuri, and you're a good friend and you brought him to me.” 

Surprised, but clearly pleased, Chris pulled him into a hug.

“I still can't believe you managed to talk to him for over six months now without even getting phone sex. You're hopeless,” he teased. “I'm happy for you.”

Victor laughed. Chris let go of him. 

“Just promise me you'll get some action soon. I maintain you can only do all those quads out of sexual frustration.” 

“Yes, I remember that theory.” Victor laughed. “But it'll have to wait.” 

“Why? Are you too shy with your prince? Vows of purity until marriage?” Chris teased him. 

“Because we're going to see my father in the cancer ward.” Victor said bluntly. That killed Chris' mood for a second, knowing as he did not to mention family, before his grin returned. 

“That's the worst first date idea I've ever heard of. He must really love you.” 

At that Victor smiled, with the secret wonder of someone who was only beginning to realise the depths of their own happiness, and it warmed him from the tips of his ice cold fingers to his aching feet. 

“I think he really does.”

 

The next day Victor flew back home. He had a day's rest to recover and pack and then he was meeting Yuuri in St. Petersburg's international airport. Yuuri's flight from Japan landed in the morning and they would wait together until their flight to France a few hours later. 

After so many years of practice and Yakov's shouting, Victor had gotten very fast at packing but never had he had to unpack, wash and repack in so short a space of time. He picked Makkachin up from the dog sitter and once they got home his tired body collapsed under the bulk of dog leaping up and crushing him, happily licking his face in huge wet swipes. He was really much too old for this puppy type of behaviour, but Victor never had the heart (or truthfully the desire) to stop him. He scratched the fur on his snout and behind his ears and Makkachin crumpled down in ecstasy. 

He rolled around hugging his poodle back until Makkachin had thoroughly coated his face in saliva, which was what the dog thought constituted an appropriate welcome. Victor had to wash it off in the sink, but he loved Makkachin more every time he was welcome home that way. It made a world of difference to the past. It made his flat feel less empty, though still not really full. 

Makkachin was kind and nice but he wasn't human... Victor didn't have time for this train of thought. He pulled himself together and back into practicalities. Like how to wash all of his dark socks efficiently without getting his white shirts dirty. 

Despite his tiredness, he kept moving the phone around with him. By the shower as he changed around toothpastes and empty travel-size containers for new ones, by his bedside as he exchanged dirty clothes for clean ones to put in his suitcase, by the dryer as the accumulated clothes were shoved in. Rationally he knew Yuuri would not call, he would be very busy himself, and heading for the airport. But still he kept it close, just in case. 

He'd called briefly before Victor's flight home to congratulate him on his victory. He'd been thrilled and anxious about their upcoming visit. If he noticed Victor had been skating a duet, he never mentioned it. 

Victor wanted more than anything to close his arms around him in person, to feel his heartbeat and the strength in his shoulders and finally have the small questions that puzzled him answered: what did Yuuri smell like? How tall was he beside Victor and what did the weight of his hand in Victor's hand feel like? There was never a good time to ask Yuuri about those things. He also didn't want to come off as crazy. He would know soon. He just had to wait a little longer. 

The evening past in quick bursts of action followed by long pauses of nothing. Dawn scratched the curtains while Victor was still debating in front of his case, knees bruised and cold on the floorboards. 

He could pack all dark suits. The last time he'd seen his father, a long long time ago now, he'd been in black for the funeral, but there the situation demanded it. To his father's sickbed should he be in grey instead? It didn't seem sombre enough yet he instinctively knew others would find it too formal. Black was presumptuous, he felt, even if it _was_ a terminal ward. He wouldn't want people to think he was being cold. He'd always wanted to be loving with his parents, but he had no bar to measure their expectations against. In all honesty, he had no preparation or precedent for how to behave.  

Mother would have shrugged on her fur coat, and taken the keys from the candy bowl that had never held candy in all the years Victor lived in that house. Without saying where she was going she'd hurry off to do this and that. She must have visited some ill friends, they had so many of them, a few must have gotten ill. Victor really didn't know. This train of thought was not helpful. Victor shut it off.

Perhaps given the distance he'd kept all of his son's life, his father would expect formality. Then Victor should pack the tailored Italian suit, a dark, cloudy grey, the colour of rainstorms. But then again his heart twinged at the thought that this suit meant life as he knew it continued, without reconciliation. The stiff fabric agreed to distance. So then it would be better to pack one black suit for the funeral, if it came to that, and lighter, normal clothes for going to the hospital. The sort of thing that was bright but smart.

Victor had no idea if his father would see the meaning behind the choice. If he would even care. He hadn't called. No one had called all night. He dreaded a number from France, which could only mean he was too late. Victor closed the lid on his crammed case. He'd bring it all and see how he felt when the time came. 

At least choosing clothes to meet Yuuri was easy. On a three hour flight Victor would definitely be joining him with casual choices. He smiled as those two big problems were resolved. Yuuri always made life easier for him. Nervous at meeting him, yes, and a little anxious for fear of seeming too eager, of leaving the wrong impression. He had no experience at being himself. Touch-starved and desperate might not be the most appealing prospect for Yuuri to deal with right off the bat. But the meeting was not challenging, not constantly second guessing. Nothing like talking to his fellow competitors, wondering how they perceived him.

They set him on edge, reminded him of a group of jeering teens. Some of them were those teens, grown up now, standing in Victor’s shadow. He put on his smooth exterior and hoped they'd like the superficial charm and wouldn’t hurt him too much again. It didn't seem to work; he swallowed rejection and retreated further into his shell, pretending it didn't scratch at old scars. They made him all uneasy, they looked at him like he was an obstacle, an object to shove out of the way.

One competition some skater shoved a glass of champagne in his hand and told him to take it easy. Victor blinked. His conversation with almost everyone had died the minute they'd finished congratulating him on his latest win, Victor floundering for any topic that didn't seem to rub it in their faces. He just had nothing to talk about outside of skating, he wasn't trying to be smug. He never _did_ anything else. He carefully passed round his refined smile, the one that didn't burst into the ridiculous heart shape that showed all the gum above his teeth, and pulled back into his champion's shell until they walked away, finding him aloof, thinking him full of himself.

The glass was placed in his hands.

“You're a little much with them, don't you think?” The man he would later find out was called Chris   said, without a trace of cruelty in his smile. “You look like a some kind of tin doll, smiling mechanically like that.” Victor had no idea how to answer and smiled mechanically in response. Chris sighed. “See? That's what I mean. Forget about skating, you've got a dog right? Tell me about that. I'm more of a cat person myself.” Chris took a sip from his own glass, giving Victor a chance to observe him. No one had spoken to him like this. No awe, no hostility. He seemed to want to be friends. Victor grinned - a tight, tingling feeling in his chest - and swelled up in mock-outrage, ready to defend dogs over cats till all the champagne in the world ran out. This was something he could finally talk about. A flurry of fireworks burst in his chest.

Years later he had the same tight, tingly feeling when he waved at Yuuri in the arrivals lounge. He couldn't stop breathing too fast, couldn't stop the frantic drumming of his heart in his chest. His fingers fidgeted and his feet danced about on their own, out of his control. He stood there and waved and held back from yelling Yuuri's name over and over at the top of his lungs, only rushing forwards to tap him on the shoulder from behind (he was a little shorter than Victor!), and holding his heart out in his hands as he said hello.

“Hello!”

It was breathless. He was flushed. He could recognise Yuuri from the back of course, he couldn't make a mistake. This was the man he was going to give his heart to. He just had to take it, _he had to_... Makkachin bounded along curiously. The man turned round and of course Victor was right and there was Yuuri and _oh_.

“... hi!”

_Oh._

There it struck Victor like it was the first time. He was beautiful. Painfully, painfully beautiful - like the shyness of his smile had set the sun blazing - like his soft brown eyes made the world turn around them. Of course Victor knew that: he was golden, even in daylight, even drained from the flight, his crumpled hair and his crumpled hoody all saying how bad travelling in economy was. He was so radiantly _Yuuri_ it took Victor by surprise. He was _perfect_.  

People rushed by to pick up relatives and friends but standing stock-still Victor gaped open-mouthed at Yuuri, here, in Russia, with him, with Victor, his glasses not quite hiding the bags under his eyes but still so mind-stoppingly flawless. His heart made all sorts of flips and cartwheels, a full gymnastics display happening in the space between his ribs. He'd never felt this way about anyone, never. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for half of his soul to show up. He wanted to wrap him in his arms and squeeze until they became just one person and he never had to be alone anymore.

Yuuri tugged his hoody string nervously. Makkachin sniffed at his other hand. Victor kept gawping. He was in _love_ with this man, had been in love for months. Yuuri's already shy smile faded, a little cloud over the face of the sun and at that Victor was knocked out of his freeze, slowly coming round.

“Yuuri...” He was still too good to be true, the shaky corners of his smile coming back up now Victor had finally spoken, and then inexplicably bursting into laughter.

It was confusing, sure, but delightful to see him standing in the middle of the airport, stuffing his knuckles in his mouth to stop himself giggling. “Yuuri!” The sound was much too infectious for Victor, and even Makkachin started panting happily, tail thumping the side of Victor's leg.

Yuuri slowly calmed down, giggles receding, tears shining in the corners of his eyes when he straightened up. He really was like the sun, brightening up every room. Victor just wanted to hug him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. Even through the thick cotton hoody he could tell those were strong, muscled arms. Being held in them would be such a nice place to be. He'd feel so safe.

“Sorry, I just...” He choked off a second wave of laughter that had Victor smiling like an idiot, dying of curiosity to know what had set Yuuri off. “That's just exactly what you did the first time we spoke. You didn't say a word for ages...”

Victor remembered. He'd stood staring at the screen for a good five minutes taking all of it in and it had made Yuuri wonder if anyone was on the other side of the camera. Yuuri just did that to him, what else was there to say?

“You seem to have that effect on me.” Victor answered softly, and kept looking intently at every trace, every mood. He had to memorize them all and treasure them forever in his memory next to the sound of Yuuri's laughter, his favourite sound in the world. His blue eyes must have been too inquisitive, because Yuuri blushed and his smile dropped just a little again. Victor really didn't like that. Through the hoody fabric his fingers were beginning to warm from Yuuri's body heat despite the Russian cold. Just like a little sun, Victor thought. 

“I'm not sure, is that a good thing?” He said it so innocently but god, Victor felt those eyes look up at him through those thick, dark lashes and there was something there that hadn't been there before. Something heavy and hot lying just under the surface. It made his chest go tight, something below his stomach clench and heat rush through his body. Yuuri would be too much for Victor to take if little glances like that sent him into overdrive, but Victor wanted him all anyway, like stuffing sweets in your face even though you know they'll give you stomach ache but oh they're too good. He was _too good_. 

Yuuri could consume his entire life, Victor didn't care, wanted him to take it. It was hopelessly alone without Yuuri. He swallowed dryly.

“It's a wonderful thing.”

Blue met brown. Had anyone, ever, felt anything as strong as the pull he felt towards Yuuri, smiling tenderly at Yuuri, doing anything at all as long as it was with Yuuri? He'd felt that pull in his dance, but his imagination was so much weaker than the real thing. If Yuuri swept him up in his arms, for real, danced the way they had in Victor's waking dream, he would simply melt away, die from happiness.

They were still in an airport terminal. Victor so badly wanted to kiss him. But they were in public, someone might see, might recognise... Yuuri seemed to notice the danger too, and finally pulled away from Victor's grip on his shoulder. He hadn't even noticed how tight his hand had been holding on till he realised the clenched fingers were closing in on air.

Yuuri pointed at the departure board. They had another flight to catch. Victor nodded and followed him silently, stumbling, trying and failing to shrug off the disappointment of not touching Yuuri any more, till Yuuri's hand closed over his. They wheeled their suitcases, Victor in seventh heaven that the fingers of his free hand were laced through the fingers of Yuuri's free hand. It was warm in his, the perfect size to squish, trying to transfer his affection without speaking a word. Makkachin made the rear of the little convoy and happiness blossomed under his eyelids every time he blinked. 

Every glance at Yuuri pulling ahead a little, his cheeks a pink colour that Victor guessed had nothing to do with the cold but everything to do with them still holding hands so tight, confirmed that he was the one. There was no one else but Yuuri. The warmth of their hands went all the way down his arm and flooded his brain with oxytocin and dopamine and all the other chemicals his physical therapist had told him were important for peak performance. Victor had never understood in that clinician's office that they were meant to feel like _this_. He could probably do some kind of quintuple rotation jump right now just from this pleasure.

They parted with Makkachin when the poodle had to be put in crate for the flight. It was stressful for him and Victor had always tried to limit how much he had to travel. He never liked seeing him in a cage. It reminded him too much of the underweight little puppy he'd taken from the pound. Even if now that pup was an oversized, well-fed dog, it still wasn't nice to be separated from him knowing that was where he would be. He’d been his only real family, the only one that mattered. He put Makka's favourite blanket from his hand luggage into the crate, and smushed the poodle's fluffy head before closing the grill. He whined softly as Victor backed away. Yuuri approached gently and petted him through the bars till he seemed at least a little happier. Victor had to remind himself Yuuri had his own dog, otherwise he'd have assumed Yuuri had somehow known Makkachin's soft spots by magic, which was no leap of logic at all because Yuuri was magical.

Then they had to say goodbye. Makkchin whined but when Victor turned around again for a final look he was relieved he'd already settled under the tattered blanket.

Of course Victor booked first class. Of course he ensured Yuuri, who had rarely left Japan and never come to Europe, got the window seat. Victor settled in the aisle seat next to him and secretly wished the armrest would disappear.

He'd flown more or less everywhere. At least to every continent. Victor was an excellent flyer but he'd had a few bad ones. The flight to his first international competition, the flight home from the Olympics clothed in guilt, the funeral... Yuuri avoided mentioning what had brought them together to meet for the first time and where they were going. His hand reached for Yuuri's over the armrest, only to meet Yuuri's midway doing the same. Their fingers touched, and brought their heads round to smile at each other again, Victor's heart thumping a little louder, his blush sneaking up his cheeks a little brighter.

It was silly how Yuuri made him feel giddier than a child. He just kept trying to swallow every detail with his eyes.

After they'd spent so long talking every day, there was surprisingly little to say. Yuuri had come all the way here for something too difficult for Victor to do alone, impossible to face alone. If he'd been on this flight by himself, without Yuuri's presence distracting and soothing him, his head would be caught in the seething cloud of emotions the memory of his parents brought up whenever he thought about them too long.

Of course there was sadness. Any death brought sadness. But his also carried a horrible sense of guilt, as though the death was Victor's fault, for reasons Victor didn't understand. Perhaps if he'd been a better son, if they'd been closer, if he'd somehow earned their love then maybe, _maybe_...  

Yuuri squeezed his hand, his head falling back against the headrest. The sky outside, the sun bouncing off the wings as they skimmed over cloud, haloed his love's features. Yuuri was more drained from his first flight than he'd let on, his eyes had slid shut, and his grip loosened on their hands. But for the noise of the engine and the wind rushing past the body of the plane, Victor might have heard in the rise and fall of his chest his soft his steady breathing, and he felt it a terrible shame that he couldn’t.

He reached over and removed Yuuri's glasses, which were digging into the side of his nose and cheek from the angle his head had fallen. They caught round his ears, slipped off, poked his cheek. Yuuri huffed, brows knit, adorable. Victor carefully folded them in his breast pocket out of harm's way. Yuuri looked beautiful with or without them, with little red marks on his nose where the glasses had rested. But for Victor, holding his glasses right above his own heart felt special, carrying a little piece of something so intrinsically Yuuri, how Yuuri could see the world, how Yuuri could see _him_ , like a talisman.

Around them he heard a few people pulling open newspapers, the man to their right typing away furiously at a laptop. Victor was content to lie there, one hand in Yuuri's touch, the other resting on his breast pocket and the blue framed glasses there.

They would land in a couple of hours. Victor had rented a car to take them from where they landed in Nice to the hotel to drop off their bags. Then if Yuuri wanted to go that day, they would visit the hospital. 

He wasn't making the first visit alone. Subsequent ones maybe but not the first. He didn't know the place, but wherever they were he’d feel a smothering silence fall about him if his father was in the room. He'd choke up, the weight of everything he had to say constricting down his throat, never breaking through.

If he didn't greet him, if he didn't recognise Victor; the humiliation, the shame on the day of the funeral... At least Yuuri would be there. At least Yuuri would hold his hand.

And then last night in the glow of his skate and the anxiety of his packing he'd put his finger on it. It made sense really, the aggression with which he'd pursued skating ever since that day in Juniors, the single-minded focus to shield himself off from any more hurt, the craving to be seen in a way he could control and then his growing sense that none of that would satisfy him. Victor was done protecting himself from harm now. He was a grown up and he would tackle this. His inspiration had been gone for a long time. 

Because he'd locked himself off so completely he thought he was safe, but really what had been growing was a restless, continuous anger. He was angry at him for dying. He was angry at his father, at his mother, at the whole lot of them who'd trampled over his feelings for years without a thought in the world that he wanted them to love him. He had no business being weak when Victor needed an explanation, wanted to wring the truth out of his body without caring what else he broke in the process. He’d have Yuuri with him, source and reminder both that Victor could be loved.

And with the anger came shame and burning guilt he knew he shouldn't carry but burned acidly in his blood anyway, because of course he'd thought it was his fault, that it was because of something he'd done. How could a child process this any differently? In his quietest, most honest moments sometime between midnight and dawn Victor still thought it must be his fault, and curled up into his pillow and sobbed because he must be a bad kid to not have his parents' love. But what had he done, what could he still do? He'd dreamed of winning them through sport, through the ice. He'd tried to make friends but it oh so rarely worked. He’d sat still on the porch all summer while the longing to blast into a triple shivered through his whole body.

And then the years passed, Yakov and training and moving away, remembering a brown car driving away from him down a dusty road in the summer. He'd never really given that up, only transferred his neediness onto the crowd and tried to suck out affection that way. He dreamed and dreamed and worked and worked to the peak of all possible success and no wonder he was angry: here he was a the summit of all he could have – but it wasn't _enough_. And that part of him that was the legendary mask broke and it was just Victor holding the medals, it was just Victor who had a house full of cold metal disks and fancy lighting and premium vodka. It was Victor who was bitter and resentful and lonely. Depressed. That was what he was when he met Yuuri, what he was still but to a much lesser extent: angry, tired, lonely – depressed. 

Of course Yuuri didn't change how he felt about everything. But he helped. _God_ how he helped, and made Victor feel accomplished and clever and good when he could help Yuuri in return. He'd never had a relationship before, not a real one, but he knew this had to be good, this feeling like a bubble ready to burst whenever he looked at Yuuri's figure curled next to him, the tip of his socks just over the edge of his seat.

He'd held the frames under his hand so long the plastic lenses were quite warm. Slowly but surely, he packed up the weight of each emotion within his body, locking them back in the compartmentalised way he knew best. He was beyond good at clearing his head, normally to adopt a new persona but this time just so he could sit and watch the sun kiss Yuuri's cheeks and slide over his neck without a care for anything that wasn't the slope of his jaw, until his own eyelids drooped from their sleepless night and Victor drifted off next to him.

 

Bright afternoon sun beat down on the tarmac runway. One or two stragglers were still fighting with the luggage racks for their suitcases. First class was empty but for them.

A fuzzy sense of happiness at seeing Yuuri's face swim in front of his eyes as he woke up suffused him, then merged with a yawn. He'd dropped Yuuri's hand sometime between falling asleep and waking up, but that was nothing when Yuuri brushed the fringe out of Victor's eyes, looking down at him embarrassed at being caught. He needed to know he was welcome, more than welcome, to touch any bit of Victor he wanted: Victor smiled at him like he'd never seen daylight before. Yuuri's shoulders visibly eased, tension leaving his face. 

“Can I have my glasses back?” 

Victor quickly patted himself and found them, handing them over.

They said thank you at just the same time. Why on earth it was on Victor's lips he had no idea. Yuuri laughed, Victor smiled sheepishly. He was still getting used to having Yuuri around, it was strange, he just wanted to keep thanking him. The only thing to thank him for was existing. Then again, in Victor's opinion, Yuuri ought to be thanked daily for existing. He would thank him every single moment for existing, and coming over to exist just a little bit closer to him. Their fingers pressed and stilled as he passed over Yuuri’s glasses. They were taking much too long getting off this plane judging by the looks of the air stewardess, but Victor didn’t let that stop him from thinking about how pretty Yuuri was. 

He easily passed down Yuuri's suitcase, then his own. Makkachin was waiting impatiently for them at the terminal, barking loudly and turning heads the minute Victor came into sight. In the brief walk between plane and terminal beads of sweat had already begun to pearl on his forehead. After five minutes of wandering outside looking for the rental car it became apparent Yuuri was _a_ _lot_ better at handling the heat. Victor, from the midst of winter, was simply not used to the sultry summers along the Mediterranean coast, whilst Yuuri, shedding layers merrily, unconscious of the effect he was having on Victor's heart rate, seemed perfectly in his element.

Still, despite Yuuri rolling his wrists and stretching like a sunbathing cat, t-shirt riding up over his waistband in a way that did nothing good to Victor’s heart rate, Victor felt the weight of some quick and worried glances as they found the car, parked in the middle of the lot. Obviously Yuuri thought he was not as calm as he appeared to be. Victor himself was surprised, uncertain as to his state.

He’d been seething on the plane, crying in the night, and a mess for nearly twenty seven years. It wasn’t an obvious thing to react to. Dread was his most clear emotion, and the feeling of having Yuuri next to him, Makkachin lounging on the back seats, did a lot to offset it. 

They dropped their bags off without a problem, Victor’s fluent French earning him an admiring glance from Yuuri that had him puffing out his chest with deep satisfaction. It was silly, he’d only learned this for competitions, but if Yuuri was impressed, perhaps it was ok to feel a little proud. Then it was time to go, popping the bubble. 

He must have visibly deflated, because even Makkachin stuck close to his heels, not roaming out from them as he usually would somewhere new. Yuuri’s fingers laced once more through his, guiding him through gentle pulls along the path suggested by his phone, until Victor’s increasingly heavy steps carried him to the front doors of a large white building, modern windows making the most of the afternoon light.

A front desk, a slow elevator ride, three interminable hospital corridors he seemed to glide down in a dream.

Nurses and doctors shuffled by, faces blurred through frosted glass doors, bodies swathed in an unreal shade of mint green, seeming to belong so thoroughly to the hospital, the blood cells thrumming through its system carrying clipboards or stainless steel trays, that they lost all plausibility. Though is Victor stopped to think about it (and none of the blurs seemed to be stopping, and his footsteps were still gliding down the corridor, holding onto the hand in his - it was important he held onto that, though his brain was being slow at reminding him _why_ ), he was disconnecting out of some feeling of preservation. He’d done so in the past, it seemed logical that his mind would jump to doing that now… 

Moments of crystal clarity, vividly remembered and yet as much as they were deeply personal, they seemed to be captured in his memory as impersonally as the shutter of a camera. He knew well what they meant, knew why they gave him an ache in his temples that vodka couldn’t help fade, and felt distant from them, as though they had been projected onto a screen. A blue dress fluttered in the summer breeze, gauzy in the air, overexposed to the summer sun. Through the scratched glass of a train window, a car rumbled away, the colours swirling around in dust clouds. A field of golden wheat stood parched under the heat, melting into monochrome film. 

There’s was no neat photographic trick to aestheticise or soothe the blank face that shook his hand at the church, so faded and lined it seemed grey above its black suit. No way of remembering but with the punch of its reality: the grasp of leathered skin, the scatter of dirt on the highly polished coffin, the damp sticky feeling of tears spreading over his nose, crying at god knows what but not for the body they were lowering in - crying about the guilt of not crying for the body they were lowering in was closer to the truth. It turned around his stomach. 

Yuuri squeezed his finger ever so gently. “You’re crying,” he whispered. Victor brushed his cheeks. They were perfectly dry, but he could hardly say Yuuri was wrong. One day, perhaps, he would have to ask Yuuri how he could already know these things, that crying was silent, that mourning took place behind smiles, that solitude was most felt in a crowd. Yuuri just seemed to already know, and for now Victor wouldn’t wonder why too hard. They’d arrived. The creature in his stomach tightened its grip.

“I…”

Yuuri’s thumb stroked the back of his hand, as though to remind him that he’d flown all the way from Japan for Victor. He swallowed his doubts. 

*** 

Through the frosted glass, a dark outline was visible amidst the sea of white. It swam, grotesquely magnified by Victor’s shaking vision, while his heart wrapped knots around itself, tightening in bursts. Victor swallowed hard, just like dealing with performance nerves. Yuuri raised his own hand to knock, jolting Victor forwards to tap on the door three times.

The black head moved, a blob of a limb rose, the hand detaching itself slowly from the dark mass and with a motion told them to come in. Victor’s fist clenched around the handle. Yuuri prompted him again and touched the small of his back. He moved like an automaton; all systems shut, barely feeling his legs carry him forwards into the room.

“Good afternoon… ah.” The jolt of sound stilled him. It had been years since… A rolled English cut off, and silence settled over the room.

Along the plush duvet a wrinkled arm stabbed and pinched with needles lay supine, denting the white cotton. His shoulders sat bowed in the heat of the afternoon, the emaciated outline of bone and tendon visible in the sag of the hospital gown covering them. The old man rested on a pillow, enshrined with privacy curtains and plastic tubes. The last strands of silvered hair, tarnished yellow, settled around his crown, beneath which two piercingly blue eyes (a blue very familiar to anyone with an interest in ice skating) emerged like icy cracks forced through the leathered face. His direct gaze fell upon a person with the weight of lead, with the fixed look of a sleigh dog, as though the body before him had been analyzed and already dismissed. The skin had acquired none of that translucent fragility of age, that brings out the mottled blues and purples under the surface. Instead like carvings in ancient stone, two deep set lines pulled the jaw downwards, a chain stretching like the Andes wrinkled the forehead, and a defined sag at the cheek gave it weight.

Alexei Nikiforov, an immovable pillar behind his desk, the name emblazoned in gold on the building’s top floor, lay in state in the small hospital room. His son and heir stood awkwardly in the doorway and a scrap of a shadow edged behind him, trying to peer round at the scene.

Victor knew he should move in, and take the armchair at the head of bed. But it meant getting close, impossibly, uncomfortably close; only a few feet away. When was the last time he’d been that close, he wondered, muttering some kind of strangled greeting as he kept his head down. In the living room, the oddly named living room, there had been a picture of them. His father held a constrictively wrapped bundle as if for display, standing next to his seated mother. Perhaps then was the last time. The silence of the room was as it had been then, a pressure building inside his ears, making his head ring. He fell into the seat, refusing to look up. The vision of summer spent on the back porch came to mind vividly and almost as by instinct Victor shoved his hands beneath his legs, palm to the fabric, to avoid fidgeting.

He stole a quick glance back as Yuuri shut the door, and was strengthened by it. Still Alexei Nikiforov played the part and waited for the opposing party to speak first. Victor had been bruised enough by the game to know a few of the rules by now.

“I hope…” he fished for the words hanging round his mouth, awkward and slippery, “you’re doing well?” At least Yuuri winced sympathetically at his poor choice of phrasing. Mr. Nikiforov remained impassive. “I came as soon…” Little snippet syllables, that died with the thoughts they carried. “I…” Yes, his hands were fidgeting beneath his legs, scratching at the seat. He wanted to shake his feet and move, jump, anything. “This is Yuuri,” he blurted, hand yanking away towards his beloved, who gave the best approximation at a warm smile in the icy climate. Victor really did love him very much for it. “He’s…” Helping? A stranger? My promised one? “... special to me.” That was true enough. Not quite adequate for _Yuuri,_  the concept of Yuuri, the kindness of Yuuri, the beauty of Yuuri, but true enough. His fingernails scraped at the ridged velvet of the chair. The curtains hung, drab and generic.

Alexei turned his head towards the guest, acknowledged his hello with a steady look, and remained disinterested. Victor nodded. Yes, he’d introduced Yuuri, that was step one. The outside noise - of cars and people, seagulls bickering, the fall of something hard on tarmac - filled the room again. Victor had more to say; it was the starting saying it part that was difficult. He’d never been good at conversations. He’d never had _practice_ at conversations. Yuuri made it so easy, and yet _this_ was so hard. Impossibly hard.

What was there to say? How was Victor supposed to throw everything out in one go, like slop from a bucket, when it was just going to splash and drip off the wall? He had months to prepare a declaration on the ice, this was different, this was -

“Victor invited me, to meet you.” Yuuri took another brave stab at getting a word out. “It was important to him I think.” He looked over and gave Victor a reason to raise his head. He nodded again enthusiastically, grabbing Yuuri’s life rope.

“Yes, I very much wanted you two to meet, since…” Victor cut himself off. That raised Alexei’s attention. A crack lifted the corner of his mouth, which Yuuri doubted very much could pass for a smile. It had more of the blizzard thriving wolf licking his teeth before the storm. 

“‘Since’?” The strangely curved mouth directed at Victor, who as closed to flailed as a person can with their two arms pinned down and their whole expression wobbling, about to fall apart. Alexei Nikiforov showed no sympathy. “Since you’ve heard I’m dying? You know, I never asked the hospital to trouble you with this.” He paused, calculated. The tip of his tongue slipped out over his lips, revealing yellowed teeth. Victor had always hated the _pause_. The pause was torture, waiting for what might come, for… Nikiforov inhaled and Victor peeked up, incapable of resisting. He’d found the words. “Really Victor, this visit, aren’t you exaggerating?”

“I - ” The words crashed around him in flames. _Exaggerating_. Perhaps he was _exaggerating_. Everything bottled up he wanted to say, wasn’t he exaggerating? Yuuri would think he was exaggerating, Yuuri would hate him for travelling so far when Victor - when Victor... He was a child again, he’d been stupid and done the wrong things again, _again, again, again…_ He could be a ball. He mustn’t look at father, he was ashamed under those eyes, father knew his shame and father knew his stupidity and he could reveal everything about Victor, all the worst parts of himself, peel away the limbs and layers Victor curled around himself and flay him raw with only a few words. The tears bubbled up, thick and warm, constricting his throat, exaggerating So this was what it was like. Yes, he’d run away from this feeling, why on earth had he thought he’d be strong enough to come back, why on earth did he make such a drama and feel this way when… ?

Too busy holding his eyes as open as possible to stop the tears pooling over, he barely noticed Yuuri get up, or walk around the bed to him, and only really noticed the gentle pressure on his shoulder in time to look up and see Yuuri standing next to him, jaw clenched tight. Victor’s reclined head touched the arm held around him, but Yuuri’s eyes were focussed on the one part of the room Victor couldn’t look at, so he kept them on his Yuuri instead. Yuuri mustn’t hate him, Victor repeated to himself, he mustn’t walk away, however much Victor deserved it if he did, he mustn’t...

“Isn’t it rather normal he would want to see you? He’s your son.” 

Victor could feel the new perspective like a slap in the face. Yuuri… He was beautiful as dawn light slipping over mountain peaks and he had a point. It was _normal_ for other families. It wasn’t normal for them, but Victor hadn’t wanted to _be_ like this.

Alexei Nikiforov shrugged.

Victor had cried at his mother’s funeral. Not really for her, but in regret and in shame. He’d let her down somehow, horribly and permanently. But crying was  _normal_ in other families. Why was this so strange to him?

And in the wake his father had looked through his crying son like he didn’t even know his name, and Victor thought, maybe, that it was the shock, the grief, and maybe he’d been _exaggerating_ how much it hurt to be so dismissed. That he should have been more understanding and not take it personally. But then again, Victor knew, he’d looked at him while the tip of his tongue swept over the thin flat of his bottom lip. 

“I don’t understand.” Yuuri’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Aren’t you happy he came to visit you?” 

Victor understood though. Standing on the edge of a high place and looking down would give him the same dizzying sickness he felt now. The strangely fossilised loneliness snaking round him was old stone. He gazed back at the blank face of his father and understood. He wasn’t wrong. He’d never been wrong a single second of his life when he felt with absolute certainty terrifying to a child that his parents didn’t love him. No wonder, Victor realised with a bitter taste, no wonder all that ice skating never reached them. He thought he’d been looking for something to win back. He’d struggled to be worthy. Turns out he’d been looking for something that _wasn’t there_. And Victor had Yuuri's hand on his shoulder. Victor knew what that felt like, and he looked at the wolf in the eye of the storm and pitied his solitude.

Victor grasped the warmth of Yuuri’s hand. He only really had one way of speaking. He was never going to be able to say what he had to say to the man who’d abandoned him on every possible level. And he’d already been screaming it for years. 

“Did you watch my competition yesterday?” he asked the last thing of his father that had any hope of salvaging their relationship. 

Alexei Nikiforov replied nothing. 

Victor stood up.

“I hope the funeral you have planned will be beautiful. I will try and send a wreath.” 

And he took Yuuri’s hand in his and walked away.

“Victor.” Nikiforov senior winced at the tug of the IV drip in his arm. He dropped back. The door closed between them. “Vitya!” 

*** 

Nice was gorgeous in the evening, the pastel hotels lining the shore, with their white stucco detailing richly hued in the setting sun. Victor and Yuuri wandered aimlessly up and down, Victor sometimes crying, sometimes stunned, often needing to pause and breathe long droughts of the sea air. He wasn't a toy to play with anymore. He wasn't going to be cast aside. They rambled up the hills to the cedar forests and soon the climb had Victor panting enough to drive the shock from his mind.

It seeped through slowly, in layers - a realisation he’d been drawing towards for a long while. From the day Yakov gave him a lift in his car and didn’t complain at the snotty face pressing into his jacket, or how the weeping boy clung to his shoulders, from the day Makkachin, the little starving creature of fluff and bones lighter than a bird, licked the palm of his hand and made him fall in love, from the day he’d made skating both his life and his curse. He was so _loved_ by the people who mattered the most to him, even if they weren’t the ones who had any reason to - still they did. Love persisted around Victor, Victor had always been good enough to inspire it, to deserve it. He deserved love. Maybe he’d never be quite good enough to deserve _Yuuri’s_ love, but that was no failing of his. Yuuri simply deserved the world in Victor’s eyes, his warmth pressed tight against Victor’s side as they walked through the scented woods together, golden light dipping in through the pines. He'd try and give him as much of it as he could. 

Yakov would call him in a few days, remind Vitya that he hadn’t stayed up training him for so long only for Victor to leave. He wouldn’t say “I want to see you happy”, but he’d make it clear in the way he’d tell Victor to stop being distracted gazing at his phone, in the satisfied smile after training as Victor rushed to speed dial Yuuri. It had been in the competitions, year after year, where he would stand quietly proud next to his boy and help him reach new heights. It had been when he slipped Victor a list of phone numbers and told him any of those councillors would be good, and when he accepted with a sigh a sick Makkachin being dropped into his arms and began searching for a vet. Real family.

He’d call Yakov back. He’d set up sessions and he’d compete with the Russia squad. He’d been invited to another skater’s birthday what seemed like years ago, only a few days in fact, and who knew, he might even go! Milla didn’t seem like the kids by the river. She seemed nice. He could do with more friends.

Yuuri caught his eye as they looked down at the city and the sea stretching out beneath them. A few pine needles had fallen in his hair, and he was sunlit, his eyes wide as he took in the scene, his lips parted in admiration. Victor’s arm draped around his waist, thrillingly close. He’d apologised for the reunion not having gone as they wanted, but Victor kissed his hair and promised it had been the best thing to ever happen to him. Yuuri was among the few things Victor counted as the best to have ever happened to him.

And now they were together and the question hung in the air, dusting blush over both of their cheeks. Because Victor didn’t want to impose, because Yuuri wasn’t sure how to start, because the day had already been so heavy, and for now all Victor wanted was to sink into Yuuri’s embrace and forget everything of yesterday and tomorrow. The rest of what would come would come, he thought, brushing his thumb over Yuuri’s plush, soft lips. There was tomorrow, for Yuuri to lean up into him, his face close, his eyelashes fanned and shading the sweet intensity of his expression, all his body pressed into all of Victor’s and his arms reaching to cradle Victor’s cheeks. And then tomorrow, for Victor to be stunned at how perfect this Yuuri was, like every other Yuuri, tears rolling down his face out of his control and without a hint of shame, and tomorrow for more words and thoughts, who knew what they could be? But for tonight he kissed Yuuri under the cedar trees, holding each other as gently as only lovers can do, and forgot about everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was insanely late to come, but finally it arrived.
> 
> If you enjoyed this at all, please feel free to leave a comment, I'd be very grateful ^^
> 
> I don't expect I'll be publishing anything much until the Yuri on Ice Big Bang, so see you next level!
> 
> For any spoilers, or encouragement, or just to chat, come find me on tumblr @extrayuurikatsuki for all YoI related things, or @nakanowardcat for everything else!

**Author's Note:**

> [Final draft edit: this was meant to be cam girl au but I couldn't make smut work with abandonment issues, I'm really sorry. But if you want a fic that is about overcoming childhood trauma through strength and love, and a sweet fluffy ending then this is the fic for you! (sorry 'bout the smut though, I'm disappointed too)]


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